Shetlander
by The Rev. Cardboard Box
Summary: The new Laird is stopping in Ponyville en route to Canterlot. However, he and his herd are only the first to arrive. The second arrival will be bad enough. As for the third herd of visitors...
1. Messenger

_My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic_ is ©Hasbro Inc. and/or Lauren Faust, assuming that she hasn't been completely screwed over by said inhuman corporate entity and left with nothing.

No insult is meant to any Celtic-based cultures or societies past, present, future or lurking in the more unspeakable corners of space and time.

Please get these lawyers' teeth out of my bum.

Oh - now you know what I did last November for NaNoWriMo.

* * *

**CHAPTER 1: The Messenger**

Princess Celestia, the Alicorn of Day and Keeper of the Sun, regarded the grovelling pegasus with interest. This regard was not shared as said pegasus kept his gaze firmly fixed on the floor.

The pony in question had a shaggy coat the colour of weak tea, made even milkier with fear; his unruly dirty blonde mane was darker by comparison. Against this, the blue, green and red of the patterned wool scarf he wore stood out quite starkly.

He had been heralded as a messenger, but it was becoming clear that Celestia wasn't going to get the message unless she put him at his ease. She considered her words, then spoke carefully.

"Rise, good messenger," she intoned, "and deliver your tidings without fear." As she did she carefully pushed a gentle brush of calming magic across his brow. It wasn't something she normally did, but this was different. She wasn't used to ponies being almost catatonic with fear of her.

"A– a– as ye wish, _iníonacha ionúin Epona_," the stallion stuttered, rising slowly to his hooves. Celestia raised an eyebrow briefly. _He still follows the old faith? That explains a lot._

The messenger blinked nervous blue eyes at her, swallowed, and cleared his throat. "I... I bring news from t' Council o' Thanes o' t' Shetlands," he recited, growing in confidence and brogue as he did so, "as required by our oaths. The Laird is dead; long live Laird Deargdyer!"

From his neck hung a small canvas pouch with his clan tartan and cutie mark on it – a sporran, Celestia remembered. One end of a scroll poked out, and the pegasus bent his head down and lipped it out. "Here as per ye ancient commands be t' banns o' t' Council," he declared, placing the scroll on the floor before him, "decreeing their decision untae all t' Clans o'..."

A terrible look crossed the messenger's face as the rest of the speech eluded him.

He blinked frantically to remember, then froze as Celestia's horn flared dimly, levitating the scroll toward her face. She unrolled the document and read it, seemingly unaware of the messenger's growing panic.

"You have flown far, have you not," she observed more than asked, "without pause?"

The pegasus blinked again, seemingly needing to do so in order to digest her words. "Aye?" he quavered, "T' Council charged me tae bring yon banns t' ye an' no dallying on t' way..."

He trailed off as the _iníonacha _gave him a thoughtful look. _Epona forgive me_, he prayed, _I buggered it up I'm sorry dinnae send me home along t' Low Road..._

"And you have done your duty, good Shetlander," she said kindly, "But I now have a task for you."

While still levitating the scroll, the _iníonacha _lifted a little bell and rang it – at the same time – without looking! The pegasus stared as a young mare in some sort of black and lace uniform – a hoofmaid? – entered and genuflected. "Yes, Your Highness?" she asked without any fear whatsoever.

"This messenger has flown far," Celestia indicated him with a forehoof, "and is tired and no doubt hungry. Make sure he is rested and fed when we call on him to deliver our summons."

* * *

_SHETLANDER: _A denizen of the Shetlands.

Shetlanders are noticeably shaggier than regular ponies, with distinct whiskers, moustaches, beards, muttonchops and unshorn fetlocks. Manes and tails also tend to the 'windswept and interesting' look, but some of the landed gentry and many of the mares get theirs braided. Dreadlocks may also be seen.

Hide colours are usually muted or pastel shades of brown, roan, black . Eyes are usually brown, grey or blue.

Cutie marks are often partially obscured beneath hair. The Shetlander response has been the sporran.

_SHETLANDS, THE:_ A region several days' hoof travel north of Ponyville, composed of terrain similar to that of Scotland, featuring numerous lakes ('lochs'), mountains, large numbers of standing stones, and often bitterly cold weather. Chief exports are wool, distilled spirits, oats, and the most terrifying hoofball teams known to ponykind.

Names in the Shetlands are a portmanteau of Scottish and Irish Gaelic translations, and the accent ranges from Scotland to Ireland by way of England as well.

_CLAN:_ A Shetland herd bounded by geographical region, comprising several families and ruled by a single leader known as a Thane.

_THANE:_ Leader of a Shetland clan herd, also one of the ruling council of the Shetlands. This council is known as the Council of Thanes, who convene once a month to discuss matters of the Shetlands, as well as in extraordinary circumstances to select the next Laird.

_LAIRD:_ The highest position of Shetland society, this pony effectively leads the entire Shetlands as a herd, and has the absolute power of veto over decisions made at the Council of Thanes. Typically a Laird once chosen rules either until death, or stepping down due to disgrace, illness or old age.


	2. Preparations

Chapter 2: PREPARATIONS

Mayor Mare rarely summoned the citizens of Ponyville to a meeting, so naturally everypony was filling the town hall.

"We have important guests staying here on their way to Canterlot," she explained, "and as such I will allow our scholar Twilight Sparkle to elucidate."

"In public?" This quip was followed by a yelp as somepony kicked the wit.

Twilight herself ignored this repartee and stepped up to the front of the dais, bearing just a single document decorated with the royal seal. That got everypony's attention. Normally she did a little juggling act with a stack of papers. Whoever these ponies were, they were clearly Very Important Indeed.

"Yesterday," the unicorn known as the Element of Magic began, "Princess Celestia received a messenger from the Shetlands, which lie about four day's travel away on hoof, or roughly twenty hours nonstop flying in a straight line." [1]

"Twenty hours?" Rainbow Dash snorted, "I could fly that in half the time!"

Twilight looked over at her friend and Element of Loyalty. "I'm sure you could," she said dryly, causing a little ripple of laughter to spread throughout the crowd. "Anyway...

"Citizens of Ponyville!" Twilight read, "Heed unto the decree of the Royal Princesses Celestia and Luna of Equestria! In days four the newly appointed Laird of the Shetlands will arrive in Ponyville on his way unto Canterlot, to present himself and take his oath of fealty.

"It is the desire of the Princesses that all citizens welcome the Laird, and his retinue, with every and all hospitality that is due unto them, and offer the hoof of friendship in the spirit of harmony.

"Thus decree our Royal Highnesses of Equestria!"

Twilight rolled the scroll up with a snap and put it to one side. Then she braced herself for the inevitable.

"_PARTY!_" A pink blur of exuberance shot about nine feet into the air and crashed down right in front of Twilight, resolving itself into the Element of Laughter. "When are they coming? What's their favourite food? Do you think they'll like cupcakes? How about streamers and oh oh OH! How about –"

Twilight just rolled her eyes and ignored the hyperactive mare bouncing like a ping-pong ball around her and shaking the dais. "Relax Pinkie! We have three days to prepare before they arrive!"

"Three days?" Pinkie's eyes shone with ideas and made several of the more quiet ponies in the audience shudder.

"Apparently there's about thirty-odd ponies in the Laird's party," Twilight added, "so we'll need to... uh, is Bellhop here?"

A distinguished if slightly portly grey pony with a neatly parted mane and a waistcoat raised a forehoof. "Over here ma'am."

"Thanks... have you got room in the hotel for a party of, uh, let's say thirty-six?"

Bellhop looked thoughtful. "In three days' time? I believe so, but I'll need to check the register."

"I'll help with decorations," Rarity declared.

"I'll bring the apples," Applejack chimed in.

This started off a cascade of ponies offering their help and services, and Twilight couldn't help smiling as her adopted home town began living up to its name as the Home of Harmony.

Behind her Pinkie stopped, one ear twitching rapidly. She blinked, wondering what on earth could have set her Pinkie sense off. Then she shrugged. New ponies were coming! And that meant a party! And she had three whole days to give them the _best_ Pinkie Pie party _ever!_

"Okay, okay!" Twilight called out, stamping her hooves for order. "I'm going to find out about what these Shetland ponies are like, so we can really make them feel at home!"

* * *

Twilight cantered into the library, calling for Spike. The baby dragon roused from his nap, but didn't register what the noise was until he trudged downstairs, knuckling his eyes to find Twilight waiting for him.

"Wha'sup Twi'? I was sleepin'," he mumbled, struggling to reach full wakefulness.

"Snap out of it Spike! I need all the books we have on Shetland ponies. There's a whole lot of 'em coming in three days and they'll be staying here before going to Canterlot," Twilight ordered in her 'yay study' voice, her magic already yanking books out of the S shelves. "So... _Shetland: A History_... _Scenes from a Shetland Fling_, that'll be helpful... _Shetlander: There Can Be Only One_? What's that doing in here? That should be in _fiction!_ C'mon Spike, help me here!"

The little dragon shook his head, recognising the signs of Twilight in full research mania.

About an hour later, Twilight was happily nose-deep in a book (_When the Heather Blooms Among the Sickle Rocks_, an account of life in a Shetland family), with two respectable stacks of sturdy books either side of her. Then again, Equestrian books, being commonly manipulated by lips and hooves, need to be sturdy, since they would disintegrate rather quickly if they were not.

Spike meanwhile had retrieved _Poor Daft Ned and Other Shetland Folk Songs_ from her discards pile and was leafing through it, giggling slightly at some of the verses. He turned several pages at once and blinked.

"Hey Twilight, who's Epona and Ek – uh, Equus?"

"Huh?" Twilight blinked at him.

"There's a song in here that mentions them a lot, and they kinda sound like the Princesses. Making waters flow and the sun rise and stuff."

"Oh. Oh!" Now she remembered. "Epona and Equus are really old legends, as in... _really_ old. Even before the Titans. Ponies used to worship them as gods in the old days, before the windigoes came.

"According to the legends, Epona and Equus were the first real Equestrians... no wait a minute." Twilight shook her head, trying to remember. "Epona and Equus were supposed to have brought Equestria forth from the Shadow; sired the first Equestrians; created the sun and moon; fought off Them From Outside time and again; and, well, all that legendary stuff.

"Some ponies think that the princesses are the direct line of Epona and Equus, but," and the unicorn shrugged, "nopony's able to prove that."

She decided not to mention that there were still ponies that worshipped Epona and Equus here and there, but they were few, far between, considered eccentric at best and barbaric at worst, and carefully watched. Twilight herself felt no impulse to religious observance, not when she had learnt at the hooves of Princess Celestia herself. And Celestia raised the sun every morning, and lowered it every night, and more importantly was a _real_ pony you could see, hear, smell and touch, as opposed to beings of pure myth and legend that you only learned about third-hand from somepony's interpretation of somepony else's book which had probably been transcribed from yet another pony's oral (and no doubt garbled) retelling.

As far as Twilight was concerned, she'd rather get the answer directly from the alicorn's mouth.

"Hey wait a minute. You mean like that cult that made so much scandal?"

Twilight winced.

Years ago, some loco-in-the-coco had read his holy books a little _too _closely and decided that _he _was the reincarnation of Equus. Nothing wrong with that a little rest (with plenty of medication, counselling, and some burly ponies in white coats) couldn't fix, but somehow he'd convinced several others as well. It also brought him to Canterlot's attention, but they dismissed him and his herd as just a group of harmless kooks.

Then they discovered he was keeping a _stud._ [2]

Equine though they might be, Equestrians are a mostly monogamous species, and considered such harems as barbaric. Apparently this Equus-wannabe believed that any one of his mare followers would reveal herself as Epona by birthing a 'child of the gods'. Which meant no moon tea for the mares, and no plot for any stallion who wasn't the leader, and rather a lot of foals that weren't particularly well cared for since they were just foals and not the child of the gods he was expecting.

When it comes to foals, Equestrians are even _less _tolerant of 'barbarism'. A rather public defection was followed by the cult attempting to isolate itself from everypony else, which only served to increase the attention focussed on it.

The combination of sexual tension, too many mouths to feed and paranoia soon caused the herd to collapse spectacularly. Apparently the foals were adopted out as far away as Appleloosa...

In fact, its fall was presented to Twilight Sparkle as a textbook example of the life cycle of charismatic cults, and according to her tutor at the time, an object lesson in what happens when you get caught up in 'barbaric old ideas from antiquity'.

"Ah..." she finally said at last, "Most of them... are more sensible." Time to change the subject. "Does that book say anything about Shetland music?"

Spike blinked and showed her the cover.

"That's great Spike," she said, her magic tugging the book from the little dragon's grasp, "I can give that to Fluttershy, and this one to Rarity, and..."

* * *

In Sugarcube Corner, Pinkie Pie's head was turning back and forth so fast between the icing she was making (and testing), and the latest batch of cupcakes in the oven, that it was a wonder it didn't unscrew completely and fall off. This gave her voice a rather strange quality as she sang her latest hit.

_There's Shetlanders comin'!  
There's Shetlanders a-comin'!  
All Ponyville's a-hummin'  
'Cos the Shetlanders' are comin!_

_Do you think that they like cupcakes?  
Or maybe they like fudge?  
With pink or purple frosting?  
Whichever! I won't grudge!_

Twilight braced herself as she pushed the door open, the bell tinkling and causing the energetic little mare to spin around and give her friend a high note at point blank range. Given that there was a dividing wall, Carrot Cake manning the counter, the counter in question, and two other long-suffering patrons in between her and Twilight, this was quite an impressive feat. Unless you were a Ponyville resident.

"Shortbread!" was the first word that managed to leave Twilight's mouth.

"Ooh..." Pinkie's neck seemed to elongate like something out of a cartoon as she stuck her head into the kitchen briefly, then turned back to Twilight again. "Nopey-dope on shortbread today, but we've got some super-fresh cupcakes comin' up any minute!"

"Two pieces of the fudge please," one of the customers asked Carrot Cake, ignoring Pinkie completely.

"No, no!" Twilight shook herself, trying to pull her thoughts back into order. "Shetlanders love shortbread. I brought you some recipes."

"Recipes?" Pinkie blinked, "Ooh, I think we've already got one for shortbread – _whoop!_"

For a moment she stretched into a pink blur that snapped into the kitchen like a rubber band, followed by the sound of the oven opening and closing. Oh, her cupcakes, right.

"There we are," Carrot pushed the bagged fudge towards his customer, also ignoring Pinkie completely, "Four bits please."

"Sorry 'bout that!" Twilight sighed; for no obvious reason Pinkie had looped around the bakery and come in the front door as well, somehow without ringing the bell.

"Yeah, well, I also brought recipes for sticky gingerbread loaf –"

Pinkie's delighted squeal made a tray of custard squares shudder visibly.

"Pardon me," asked the satisfied customer, bag in mouth, as he made his way past the two Elements Incarnate, otherwise ignoring them completely.

"Oatmeal cookies, oat cakes, and –" Twilight broke off as she spotted a particular item on display. "Oh great, you do sponge cake? Apparently Shetlander's love 'em!"

"_YAYYY!_" Several trays of produce rattled alarmingly at Pinkie's expression of delight, or maybe from her bouncing up and down. "That's great I'll get to baking some right away they're just gonna _love _'em I know –"

"Can I have one of the spinach, onion and cheese pies please?" the other customer asked Carrot, ignoring Pinkie completely.

"Okay, okay!" The unicorn levitated several papers out of her saddlebags; Pinkie grabbed them in her lips and actually dangled for a moment before Twilight could release her magic. "Look, I need to see Rarity and Rainbow next, then... uh..."

"There you go, three bits," Carrot rang up the sale, ignoring Pinkie completely.

"Okey-dokey-lokey!" Pinkie mumbled around the sheets before simply bouncing into the kitchen, causing the customer to flinch slightly and Carrot to flick an ear.

"Oats, you said?" Carrot asked Twilight with an air of professional curiosity, "I'll make a note to order extra."

"Thanks Mr Cake," Twilight nodded, "Hope Pinkie hasn't been too excited."

Carrot Cake just shook his head and chuckled. "Oh, the missus and I are used to it by now. You know that. Oh – are you going to see Applejack? Because if so..."

* * *

"Cider?" Applejack blinked at Twlight. "Well, y'all _are _lookin' hot and bothered."

"No, no!" Twilight shook her head. "It's for when the Shetlanders arrive. It's not just that they'll be thirsty after travelling all day, but... apparently they're very fond of a stiff drink." She frowned. "Or three. Or five."

"The night stuff huh?" The earth pony nodded in understanding and turned towards the shed where the brewing was done, stroking her cheek thoughtfully. "We've got about two dozen barrels of night cider at the moment, but I'd say only fifteen're at the drinkable stage, the rest are too young, but hey, how much of that can a pony drink anyway?" [3]

Twilight frowned, trying to remember what she'd read. "Um... we're expecting drinking contests."

"Drinkin' contests? What the hay kinda folk are these Shetland types anyway?"

"Apparently they work hard and, uh, play hard too. At their festivals, there's a lot of eating, drinking, singing and, uh, showing off how tough and strong they are." Twilight decided not to mention that the singing was often the prelude to all-out brawling. Especially when the song was 'Poor Daft Ned' or 'Poor Blind Nell'. It depended on the inventiveness of the singers, how long before somepony slipped another's name into the lyrics, and how long before said pony noticed and started swinging.

* * *

"Who is it?" Rarity called as she heard somepony entering Carousel Corner.

"It's me," Twilight responded, "I've got a book of Shetland dress you might be interested in."

Rarity's face lit up. "Well of course I'm interested!" she cried, looking over at the large volume her friend was levitating, then moving several bolts of cloth aside on a table. "Bring it over here, dear, and let's have a look... Hmm, _Clan Dress and Tartans of the Shetlands_..."

"Apparently the Shetlanders are grouped into large herds called clans," Twilight explained, "mostly with real old names, like Deargdyer, which means 'Red Dyer'. The head of the clan is called a Thane, and..."

Rarity, used to having things 'Twi-splained' to her, tuned her out as she devoured the pictures of Shetland ponies in their native dress.

Her first reaction was: _My goodness, haven't they heard of a brush or comb – or proper grooming? _Compared to her fellow Equestrians, the Shetland look seemed to favour long whiskers, rough coats, unshorn fetlocks and the 'windswept and interesting' look for their manes and tails. No wonder they were referred to as 'shaggies'!

After that came: _Haven't they heard of coats or pants? _The depicted ponies, along with a fine parade of long hairstyles, seemed to tend to cloaks, scarves or blankets. She lingered over one statespony-like gent in a small hat described as a 'tam-o-shanter'; it was charming in a... quaint... kind of way, but at the same time...

"What is with all these dull colours?" she asked rhetorically, "You'd think they'd have something brighter. And all these patterns of red, blue, green..."

"Uh, apparently they're more about utility and warmth," Twilight shrugged, "And each clan has its own tartan, like a sort of... um... like Old Equestrian heraldry I think."

"So much wool... maybe I can work with cotton or... perhaps I can interest them in the brighter shades... but what are these neck pouches? Is that a cutie mark on them?" She frowned at a larger picture of a Shetland sporran, which was indeed a neck pouch. The artist's skill had captured the pattern on the tartan strip on its front, which also boasted a metal badge apparently fastened by small rivets.

"I was thinking you could also get some ideas for decorations from it as well," Twilight chipped in. Rarity's only response was a mumble as she read up on the essential nature of the Shetland sporran.

Shaking her head in amusement, Twilight took herself and the book she had for Rainbow Dash out of Carousel Corner as Rarity levitated a pencil and paper to herself and began brainstorming.

* * *

Rainbow Dash considered herself an athlete, and in her eyes that meant making sure she got plenty of rest to ensure she stayed in peak condition. You couldn't make history if you were overstressed after all, and buck whatever Applejack thought.

Her current 'power nap' in a handy tree was cut short by a twig repeatedly poking her in the ear. Flicking said appendage didn't dissuade the twig at all, and the pegasus finally opened an eye and observed the purple glow around the annoying thing. Further investigation revealed that down below, Twilight's horn also shared the glow. The two seemed to be connected.

"I _was _resting," Rainbow stated in a cranky tone. She most certainly didn't _whine._

"Sure you were," Twilight didn't believe her for a minute. "Look, do you want to know how to knock the horseshoes off the Shetlanders when they arrive?"

Rainbow Dash couldn't just descend from the tree, she had to do a little loop along the way. "Do I want to know? Twi', I _need _to know! I mean, they're gonna meet _me _in person! The pony who made a Sonic Rainboom _twice! _In fact, I was just thinking of a routine –"

"Sure you were," Twilight chuckled, lifting _Scenes from a Shetland Fling_ out of her bags, "but here's how Shetlanders play."

"Hmm..." Rainbow looked over Twilight's shoulder as she turned pages. "Dancing, races – ooh, wrestling! – tests of strength, drinking contests? Whoa, what on earth's that pony doing?"

'That pony' was a sturdy Shetland stallion, depicted as standing on his hind legs while balancing a heavy-looking log in his forehooves. This was no mean feat. While Equestrians can stand on their hind legs for a little while, they're not really built for it, so doing so is taxing. Especially when you're holding one end of a log in your forehooves that's about a hoof-and-half thick and about fourteen and a half strides long.

The rest of the sequence showed the pony breaking into a short run, then heaving the log into the air, whence two other ponies measured distances.

"Apparently that's called 'Tossing the Caber'," Twilight observed. "According to this, you're supposed to have it land pointing... oh, my."

"Huh?" Rainbow blinked at Twilight, who was staring at the next page, eyes wide and... blushing? She looked at the paragraph that her unicorn friend was gaping at, and ended up doing the same.

_On occasion,_, the paragraph read, _due to the ferocity of their exertions, a stallion competing at the caber toss may inadvertently let down; but the Shetlanders being a most earthy sort, such display is met not with censure, but by laughter and ribaldry of a most coarse manner. Fellow stallions are wont to join in the rudery also._

* * *

Fluttershy was walking into the Everfree Forest for four good reasons. Firstly, she wasn't all that good a flyer. Secondly, the foliage of the Everfree was dense enough that attempting to fly through it was a crash waiting to happen. And, thirdly, the Everfree was where Zecora lived.

Fourthly, after Twilight's visit, she felt that Zecora should be forewarned of the coming visitors.

"Who knocks outside my humble home?" Came the zebra's inquiry from inside her hut, followed by her head. "Fluttershy? Why here you roam?"

"Um..." the gentle pegasus swallowed, "We're... um, Ponyville I mean... we're playing host to a group from the Shetlands."

Zecora stared at Fluttershy in surprise, causing her to squeak nervously and attempt to hide behind her mane. "I understand your worry and fear. Why are those shaggies coming here?" [4]

Fluttershy blinked at the bitter tone in the zebra's voice. "T-the new, uh, 'leered' is going to Canterlot," she frowned, trying to remember what Twilight had said, "to swear an oath... or something."

"To bend knee at the royal court?" Zecora was astonished. "What show of power had they wrought?" She shuddered. "Don't answer that, on second thought."

"W-well..." Fluttershy was confused. "Um... you sound like you've met them."

"A cup of tea this does entail," Zecora hedged, "to wet my throat as I regale."

Pushing her potions cauldron to one side of the fire, the zebra fetched the kettle and headed for the water butt, speaking as she did so.

"After leaving far Zebrabwe  
But before I reached Everfree,  
I lived the life of a rover  
Taking in all I could see.

"My hooves they took me northwards  
To purple heathery hills,  
And deep dark lakes and mighty crags –  
And biting, bitter wind that chills.

"I... heard the revelry of the Shetlands  
With the bagpipe's skirls and drones  
Of home and hearth and merriment...  
And war and blood and bone."

She paused to lip the top off the tea container and transfer some leaves into the pot, replacing the lid with a bit more force than was really needed.

"I saw the savagery of the Shetlands,  
Pass from sage unto the youth,"

An edge crept into her voice again, obviously remembering unpleasant times.

"I saw them roistering and drunken  
Voices loud, and hooves uncouth."

"Oh, dear," Fluttershy groaned, "Twilight – I mean, she asked me about music, and gave me a book of songs, but... all that drinking, and..."

"They love their songs with subjects rousing, like drinking, fighting and carousing. If such song fills you with dismay, if asked again..." Zecora looked at her guest, "Just answer nay."

"I suppose I should," Fluttershy nodded, looking at the floor, "It's just that she's my friend, and the others are all doing their parts, and if I don't..."

"To say no to a friend is hard," Zecora said around a cup she was placing on the table, "But sometimes that's what you must do. Can nopony else carry a tune, or be willing to if asked by you?"

"Um..." Fluttershy blinked several times. "I suppose I could write Octavia... or that Vinyl Scratch, I guess... And I could ask Pinkie Pie where she found those instruments when... you know..."

"Glad I could show your troubled heart another way to do your part," Zecora smiled, then turned to where the kettle was starting to boil. She busied herself with pouring the tea, quietly praising herself for not uttering the verse that had crept into her mind. Fluttershy didn't need to know; besides, they were nowhere near the Shetlands.

_I learned the legends of the Shetlands  
Set to the bagpipes' skirls and drones  
Where ponies close their ears and flee  
the lies of things 'neath standing stones._

* * *

[1] Ponies in this fiction use an octal counting system (four hooves, two ears, one nose and one tail). As such 10am pony time is 8am human, 14pm is our 12pm, and so forth.

Pony clocks in reality have thirty divisions for hours, traditionally with midnight at the bottom of the dial and noon at the top. Assuming a similar rotational period, the Equestrian hour has forty-eight minutes of 75 earth seconds' duration.

As such, the Shetland messenger traversed the distance between the Shetlands and Canterlot in roughly sixteen hours. Even admitting that this is mostly in a straight line, instead of following the roads around the Everfree Forest, that flight was quite the feat.

[2] 'Herd' is a general Equestrian term for any grouping of ponies. More specific terms do exist for particular types of herds.

A harem herd, for instance, was known as a 'stud'. As Equestrian culture became more monogamous, the practice of keeping a stud fell out of favour. Nowadays used as slang for infidelity or a (generally male) prostitute. _Never_ call an Equestrian 'studdy'. Especially a Shetlander.

[3] Ponies classify brewed beverages into two types: low or no alcohol ones are termed 'day' and those with significant alcoholic content are termed 'night' – since ponykind frowns on imbibing such when there's work to do. Despite the existence of the Ponyville Dam, reticulated water is still relatively new in the area, so some ponies still accompany their breakfasts with a day cider or a day beer.

Available Earth beer and cider would definitely be defined as 'night' in the Equestrian lexicon.

[4] 'Shaggy' is a slang term for a Shetlander, referencing their long coats. Slightly derogatory as well, but good-natured, as opposed to 'fluffy'.


	3. Travellers

**Chapter 3: TRAVELLERS**

Normally ponies had nothing to do with the many standing stones that dotted the Shetland landscape, for the very simple reason that Princess Luna, over a thousand years ago, had recognised the menace they presented and issued an edict against approaching or touching them.

One unfortunate traveller – never mind his name, it's not important – was about to learn, in his final moments, why.

Oh, all right, we'll call him Dead Meat. Happy now? He isn't.

Travelling late, and alone, he had been easy pickings for the Muc. Unfortunately, instead of slaying, they were intent on capture - and everypony knew what _that_ meant.

Dead Meat's terrified pleas and agonised screams delighted them as they played their dismal games; when It graced them with Its presence, those screams redoubled, briefly, as It accepted their sacrifice. Several of their number, insane with religious fervour, dashed forward to lick the fresh blood from the stone. They became the second course.

With no further meals forthcoming, It departed, and the congregation descended on the gore-soaked menhir like a horde of porcine bats, tonguing the blood where it pooled in its worn and oddly repulsive carvings. Above them, their shaman yammered something almost like a blessing, and the largest of them all strode forward, rose to his hind legs, and plucked a grisly lump from the stone's top with both fore-trotters.

The congregation froze as the huge Muc war-chief devoured Its' leftovers, all eyes waiting to see what would happen; when he merely smiled, belched, and bellowed his name, the caterwaul that followed darkened the dreams of ponies a mile around.

Grault was blessed. Worse still, he was on the march.

Which is the important thing. I _told_ you the pony's name wasn't.

* * *

"Ho there laddie!"

Strangely enough – or maybe that's the mood your author is in, at this time – the hailed pony's name _was_ Garden Hoe. It said so on the sign by the front gate.

"Mph?" he asked, before dropping the hoe on the ground, and turning to the stranger. He stopped and stared, one foreleg raising automatically in surprise.

Instead of one pony, there were well over two dozen he could see; hairy earth ponies and unicorns, and not far above pegasi were wheeling in lazy circles, guarding five large covered wagons. Everypony seemed to be wearing some sort of little neck bag, as well as scarves or hats with patterns of blue, red and green. Heads poking inquisitively out of some of the wagons implied they were occupied.

What really caught his attention was that several of them were holding weapons, including some sort of mouth-held thing with wickedly curved blades. Nopony _ever_ carried weapons! Fighting was the Royal Guards' job!

The closest of the herd asked something in a thick brogue.

Garden Hoe just stared, mesmerised by the mouth weapon one of the other ponies was wielding.

"Oi! Dafty!" A hoof passed in front of his eyes, making him blink and goggle stupidly at the waver.

"I _said_," that worthy repeated in a testy tone, "d'ye ken how far tae Ponyville?"

"P-Ponyville?" Garden Hoe blinked again, the glint of blades dicing his faculties. "It's... along this road..."

"Aye, we ken this be the road," the questioner rolled his eyes, "Noo, _how, far, awa',_ be it?" he added, speaking loudly and slowly as though to an idiot.

Garden Hoe bristled at that. "Twelve hours' travel," he snapped at last, "You might like to stop tonight at Sweetwater, that's about four hours away, then continue tomorrow around the Everfree Forest – that'll take you all day." _Longer,_ he thought, _if you sample the Sweetwater brews._

The Shetlander just sniffed. "Aye then," he finally said, "Tha's wha' we wanted tae know. Thank'ee muchly laddie!"

As he turned away to inform his fellows, Garden Hoe distinctly heard him mutter, "Gurt fluffy neddie."

The farmer, quite rightly, felt insulted.

* * *

The following morning, Garden Hoe was out just after sunrise, pulling his harvester through the back wheat field. This season was quite the bumper crop, and he'd no doubt make a big bit at the market. But first you had to halter up and haul the blades and catchers down the rows.

There was something relaxing about the rhythm of harvesting; the unrelenting build-up to the perfect speed where the blades cut clean and the stalks swept smoothly into the nets; the concentration to slow down and turn at the end of the row, the approaching, dust-covered –

Garden Hoe slid to a stop. The blades caught and tore the stalks, which snagged together in the nets. He glowered at the figure, who was clearly dressed like the herd of barbarians that had passed yesterday. _I hope they stopped at Sweetwater, _he thought to himself, _and that they all have bucking hangovers._

The lone figure drew closer and Garden Hoe felt something cold on his spine. This shaggy pony's little neck bag was so worn and old that its metal badge was more rust than metal, its fabric worn and so discoloured it almost vanished in his coat. A single wrap of some thick fabric about his barrel and shoulder was so stained and worn its colour was lost in shades of sickly brown, matching the dusty coat and matted mane of its wearer.

It was the eyes of the young stallion that did it for Garden Hoe. Those brown orbs were much darker, sunk in shadowed sockets that suggested the pony had been travelling nonstop – no, that wasn't it. Most ponies' eyes gleamed with life. Not this pony's.

"Has tha' Laird passed this wee?" The pony's voice was as haggard as his appearance.

"Laird?" Garden Hoe looked puzzled.

"Aye, the Laird," the stranger grated, "He wa' comin' this wee, has tha' seen 'im? 'Ow far ahaid be he?"

The bit dropped. That herd of wild-looking... of course!

"Your friends are at least four hours away, heading for Ponyville," he said at last, "They're probably leaving Sweetwater now." He pointed in the general direction of that town. "They'll probably be in Ponyville this evening..."

"Nae time ta' lose!" The stranger spun, revealing a hide criss-crossed with an astonishing number of old scars. "Mucmarfóir thanks 'ee!"

Garden Hoe just stood there staring as the stranger galloped down to the roadside fence, went to jump it, completely failed to clear the top rail and crashed to the ground motionless.

* * *

Mucmarfóir groaned and attempted to rise but the world started dancing a slow reel.

"Hold on there," it was the farmer he'd accosted in the field. "You're not getting up until you're completely recovered. Might be a concussion."

The Shetland pony just groaned again. Even thinking hurt, but the need to reach the Laird flew around in his brain like drunken pegasi in a Cloudsdale mosh pit.

"T' Laird..." he managed to get out, "Ha' tae get tae t' Laird..."

"I don't know about your precious Leered," Garden Hoe observed, "but I do know you're in no fit state to travel, not as exhausted as you are, and not with your brains still rattling in your skull!"

Mucmarfóir just groaned again and attempted to open his eyes, then shut them again. Evidently he was in the farmer's croft, and that worthy had enough sense to close the shutters against the now agonisingly bright sunlight.

"What happened to his tummy dad?" a young colt asked.

"I don't know," the farmer said, "and don't bother him, he's still very sick from that hit to the head."

If he could have spoken without fear of passing out or puking, Mucmarfóir would have told the lad a rare tale of loss and vengeance, of his long and holy crusade against the beasts that even today colluded with the ones under stones, and slaughtered his family, among other outrages against the children of Equus and Epona.

He would have plunged his listeners into horror and despair with the sights, sounds and smells as the farm he called home burned.

He would have described many pursuits and about as many battles against the filthy swine, hoof against tusk, teeth against trotter, to the death.

He would have spoken of how the Shetlands needed a leader ready to do war against the Muc, and drive them out of the Shetlands completely; a Laird who would also root out and destroy every last one of the standing stones and what they imprisoned.

He would have spoken of the tradition of the duel for succession. A tradition he was sure would be in his favour.

As it was, Mucmarfóir, the soon to be Laird of the Shetlands, could only groan.

"How is he?" a maternal voice asked quietly, "I'm about to serve lunch."

"Still woozy," Garden Hoe remarked, "He keeps trying to get up though, and he said something about getting to a Leered."

"He must be with those ponies that passed by yesterday," the mare observed, "Poor fellow. They'll be halfway to Ponyville by now."

Mucmarfóir's eyes popped open and his ears pricked in shock. _Yesterday!_ _Father Equus,_ he prayed, _give me strength! I have tae catch the Laird and put him tae t' challenge afore he reaches..._

He stared at the wall, which was apparently not in a dancing mood this time, then raised his head, eliciting a complaint from his neck. Probably cricked it when he hit the ground. But the world wasn't rolling any more, so he was able to take in the room.

It was evidently a bedroom, since he was lying on a bed, inside a croft made mainly from wood. Wood panelling made a dado line up to shoulder level, and above that plaster reached the timbered ceiling. The pattern of leaves and flowers that rolled along the top of the dado wasn't Shetland knotwork, but reassuring in its own way.

He looked down at himself. Beyond his flank, which bore the scars of more battles than anypony should suffer, the bed was sturdy and made for two; evidently the marriage bed of the stallion eyeing him worriedly, and the mare wearing an apron looking through the door.

The apron. "Wha' – where's ma sporran? Ma blenkit?" Frankly he was more concerned with his sporran. It was the last remaining memento he had of happier times. When Ma and Da, and his brother and sisters were...

"Sporran?" The stallion was looking at him. "You mean that bag you were wearing? Over there, on the dresser. As for that blanket of yours..."

"It took three washes to get all the dirt out," the mare chimed in, "it's on the line now."

At first his legs couldn't remember how to work, but he finally not only managed to reach the floor, but stand. Additional effort led him to totter, then walk over to the indicated furniture, where, neck twinges aside, he managed to lip the dirty strap about his neck again. The small burden of his sporran and its precious keepsakes against his breastbone made him sigh in relief.

"Ah thankee good farmer," he said quietly, "but I have tae be awa' fast. Ah must catch up tae t' Laird!"

"Well have something to eat first!" the mare bustled into the room and laid a hoof against his forehead. "You're almost skin and bone. I've just laid the table –"

"Nae time, nae time!" Mucmarfóir couldn't believe it. A day behind them! Sweet mother Epona... He hesitated in the main room, the smells of hot bread and day cider causing his stomach to war with his need to pursue the Laird. _Father Equus forgive me,_ he gave in at last, _wha's another hour on t' road? At least I'll have a full belly..._

* * *

"I do hope the poor colt's all right," fretted Warmhearth to her husband later that evening, while the world was passed into the care of Princess Luna.

"He talked funny," their son observed. It was really the main lasting impression he had of the strange pony his dad had dragged into the house after falling over the fence. That and the strange pouch he had slung around his neck, not to mention his scary eyes.

"Yes he did, didn't he?" Garden Hoe nodded. "Just like the other herd that passed yesterday."

"Why's he so far behind then?"

Garden Hoe frowned. That _was_ strange. The shaggy ponies had been travel-stained all right, but not as much as... what was his name again? Muck-ma-far?

The last sunlight withdrew from the windows, and Warmhearth went to close the shutters. As she did so, Garden Hoe watched her move around in the fire's warm light and, as he always did, offered a prayer of gratitude to the Princesses for his happy life.

Then Warmhearth stiffened, squealed and banged the last set of shutters shut, backing away a little too fast. "There's something out there!"

"What? Somepony's out there?" Garden Hoe scrambled to his hooves. "At this time of night?"

"N-not somepony!" Warmhearth's eyes were wide and ears pinned back with fear. "Some_thing!_"

"Dad?" a childish voice asked behind them, starting to quiver.

Garden Hoe didn't answer, as he was peering out through the heart-shaped cutouts in the shutters.

Luna's moon was waning tonight, which immediately put him on edge. It was too early. The almanac had a half-moon scheduled for this week, why was...

Something grunted outside. Almost like a pig, but deeper and more menacing. As his eye adjusted to the darkness he saw it.

_Them._

There were at least a dozen, some inside the fence. Most were on the road, and many were standing erect. Insufficient moonlight gleamed on... teeth? And... dear sweet Celestia and Luna were they carrying _weapons?_

The air outside carried a smell of carrion to his nostrils, and he stumbled away too, eyes wide and grabbing the door-bar in his teeth, hauling it up and into the brackets either side of the door.

"Daddy?"

Garden Hoe fought to get his breath under control when something shoved against the door, rattling it. The ponies froze in fear as the something grunted and scrabbled. Its voice – if it _was _speaking – sounded foul and uncouth... and hungry.

There was a response. This voice was deeper, and even worse, like a pig underwater. And it sounded angry. The first monster snarled back, then there was a short sound none of the ponies let themselves recognise, followed by screams of pain – then more sounds that would haunt their nightmares for weeks to come.

The final noises were more of those grunt-words, barked in a threatening tone, before a chorus of voices rose, chanting a name that would also stalk them in their nightmares.

"_Grauuult..._"

None of the ponies slept well that night, fearing the monsters' return.

They did.

* * *

Elsewhere, Luna frowned up at the moon. "What the hay are you playing at?" she asked it irritably – more precisely, she asked its Inhabitant.

She herself had been exiled to the moon for a thousand years, which meant she knew far too well the foibles of what lived on the far side of the moon, and protected Equestria from Them from Outside. The Inhabitant wasn't actually all that bright, but it had reached an agreement with the princesses to guard them and their planet, but that actually took quite a bit of effort.

It wasn't until about two thousand years ago that Celestia and Luna had discovered why the damned thing kept trying to face Equestria and its population of tasty snacks.

Some of Them weren't so much Outside as _Beneath_.

Communing with the Inhabitant was not her favourite way of spending a night, and this was no exception. Most of its higher mental functions, if it had any, were incomprehensible; only its baser instincts were understandable.

Tonight it had sensed prey moving. Clenching her jaw to prevent herself throwing up, she pressed for more detail. _This had better not be ponies for dinner,_ she muttered, squinting up at the satellite.

The Lunar Guardsmen stationed beside her were startled when she gasped and staggered backwards, eyes wide, ears back and mouth agape. Then she vomited.

"Your Highness?" one asked, "What is it? Should I get a nurse?"

Luna didn't answer at first, as she had to wait until her stomach contents had left. She'd delved too far into the Inhabitant's mind, she knew it. It took a few breaths to get her voice back.

"Wake Celestia," she finally said, "tell her, 'They are walking the earth.'"

"'They are walking the earth'?" one asked, confused.

"Do as I say, guardsman!" Luna snapped, causing the soldier to step back in shock. "She'll know what it means."

* * *

_SWEETWATER:_ A brewery town roughly a day's hoof travel north from Ponyville. Renowned for its beer and spirits.

_FLUFFY:_ A highly offensive term to anypony, casting aspersions on their intelligence, breeding, and usefulness to society. May also be an allegation of vanity. (Based on the entry at .com)

_NEDDIE: _Shetland slang for a fool. Apparently contemporary with the first known renditions of _Poor Daft Ned._

_INHABITANT OF THE MOON: _[Redacted by Royal decree for your protection]

_THEM FROM OUTSIDE: _[Redacted by Royal decree for your protection]

_THEM UNDER STONES: _[Redacted by Royal decree for your protection]

_MUC:_ A race of primitive, semi-intelligent pigs that have proven stubbornly intransigent about integration into pony society. Despite researchers not being able to find evidence of prior occupation of the region, the Muc persistently attempt to take over and wipe out the inhabitants of the Shetlands. Witness reports, however, indicate an almost certain link between Them Under Stones and the Muc's predations.

It is strongly recommended that visitors to the Shetlands do not approach either the Muc or any standing stones, nor should anypony travel on hoof alone at night.


	4. An Expected Arrival

**Chapter 4: An Expected Arrival**

Zecora jingled down towards Ponyville with saddlebags of various potions and palliatives for trade. While the ponies were still not completely comfortable about the rhyming hermit from Zebrabwe, they couldn't argue that her concoctions were decidedly effective.

Somehow she suspected that said concoctions were going to be in great demand tomorrow morning.

As she approached, her steps slowed as she looked at the ponies milling about with more purpose and energy than usual. There were buntings of red, blue and green spanning the main street, and to her surprise more banners adorned the lampposts in the same hues, with the white silhouette of a thistle against their patterned background.

"The town is decked in banners gay," she observed to a passing pony, "the Shetlanders arrive today?"

"Yeah, a pegasus arrived from Sweetwater this morning," the pony replied, shifting his hooves slightly. Despite proving she wasn't as evil as she was painted with her remedy for poison joke exposure, along with other helpful nostrums, there were still those ponies who saw her under a cloud.

"Then Zecora will drop her potions off," she replied, an edge creeping into her voice, "and then back to Everfree will go. For Shetland foals I've met before, to meet again? Thank you, but no."

The pony blinked at her in surprise as she trotted towards Ponyville Hospital.

* * *

Nurse Redheart was checking inventory when she heard the front door open with the sound of loaded saddlebags and muttering. "Yes?" she asked, poking an inquiring head into the reception area, "how can we – oh, Zecora!"

"It is I, indeed," Zecora replied with a snort, "with the potions you need."

"Potions?" Redheart was confused. "I don't think we... uh..."

"For these nostrums ponies will be grateful," the zebra replied, "to... cure the morning after hateful."

Redheart blinked as Zecora bent around to pull bottles and packets out of her bags and place them on the counter.

"Hangover cures... that healing salve, that's always welcome Zecora... whoa. Is _all _of this _silphium?_"

Zecora didn't look at her. "With Shetlanders, you must be receptive to the benefits of contraceptives." She pulled out even more jars of the plant in question and thumped them on the counter, not looking Redheart in the eye.

"Do you really think we'll need all of this?"

Zecora turned her head away to extract more items, but blew in annoyance on finding her saddlebags empty. "The wild ponies of the north go hard in work and hard in play. When revelling limits all are scorned." She gritted her teeth audibly. "How do I know? I will not say."

The medical mare opened her mouth to speak but Zecora cut her off.

"Your healing rounds I won't delay. Thus I bid you a pleasant day."

Nurse Redheart just stared as Zecora, jaw set, shouldered her way outside.

* * *

"It was the strangest thing," Redheart said later that afternoon to one of her friends, "she's obviously met the Shetlanders before, and she doesn't like them at all. If I didn't know any better, I'd say one of them tried to..." She shivered.

Her friend stared at her and shuddered. "Still," she replied, "they're escorting the Laird, right? They'll have to be on their best behaviour. Besides, remember what we used to think of her. These ponies probably aren't as black as she paints 'em."

They didn't notice Snappy Scoop eavesdropping and filing that titbit away for her story.

Just about everypony in town was arranged along the main street, watching the road to Sweetwater for signs of the Shetland herd. Mayor Mare was going over her welcoming speech for what probably was the thousandth time. Pinkie was, depending on where you were looking, hopping on the spot looking down the road, or going over her welcome wagon for the umpteenth time. Once Mayor Mare had given her welcoming speech, she'd pull it out and give 'em a _real _welcome – or maybe she'd switch things around and welcome 'em _then _the mayor could make her silly speech that'd be - but where _are_ they?

A cyan shape dropped out of the sky, resolving itself into Rainbow Dash as she backwinged to a stop in front of the mayor and Twilight. "They're coming!" she cried, "looks like they're forming up into ranks or something."

"A parade?" Pinkie cried excitedly. Now she _had _to use the Welcome Wagon! And maybe a song... _yes!_ The one she did for Cranky! That'd be just...

"C'mon Rainbow, get your Element on!" Twilight lifted the necklace in question. "Now hold still."

"How far away are they?" Mayor Mare asked.

"About half an hour by hoof," Rainbow shrugged as Twilight fastened the magical jewelery around her neck, "They've got five big wagons, and there's about twenty or so ponies and unicorns on the ground and ten pegasi in the air."

She didn't mention that three of the pegasi had intercepted her in the air – all stallions, and all highly suspicious.

"And wha' ye be doin', stickin' ye snout in other ponies' business?" one, a heavy-set tan chap with a darker mane had asked, tapping his forehooves together with a metallic clinking.

"Huh?" Rainbow realised she was staring at his hooves. Most ponies didn't wear shoes, except on ceremonial occasions - not that Rarity didn't try to popularise the idea. But these shoes...

...These shoes were made for fighting – well-worn iron, with accents of some sort of elaborate pattern around the edges. And sharp.

"Dinnae make me give tha' a smack," brought her back to the present. "Wha's tha doin' spyin' on us?"

"Spying? We're all waiting for you guys!" Rainbow was hurt by the allegation. "Don't you know who I am?"

"Nay," was the flat response.

"Rainbow Dash? First ever pony to perform a Sonic Rainboom – _twice?_" How could anypony _not_ know of her exploits?

"Hey up, she is an' all!" One of the other pegasi was staring at her flank. "She be one o' Harmony Incarnate ye gurt gobshite! How can ye nay know t' stories?"

She was amused to see Mr Shoes blink, then finally register the truth. "My apologies, m'lady," he mumbled, "but we've been on t' road four days an'..."

"Well," Rainbow cast an eye downwards, "I'd say you're about half an hour away from Ponyville. The whole town's turned out to meet you."

"Oh aye?" Mr Shoes looked thoughtful, "Well, we'll have tae put on a wee show for t' town won't we?"

"I'll tell them you're coming," Rainbow replied, turning to leave, "but you'd better hurry before Pinkie brings the welcome wagon to you!"

* * *

"There they are now!" somepony called, indicating a small dust cloud that had entered visible range. The cloud grew several dots, which resolved themselves into three lines of ponies, all marching behind a single leader. A wing of what looked like ten pegasi flew overhead, keeping pace with the herd on the ground.

As they closed the distance, drummers in the middle of the ranks started a rapid rataflam which carried to the waiting ponies.

Then a shrill yet thunderous blast of sound slammed into Ponyville.

Those that didn't flee – or have to chase after frightened foals – would see that one of the five carts in the parade had a couple of ponies sitting in it, each one kneading a tartan bag with their hooves and blowing into a pipe attached to it. Other pipes sprawled out of the bag, and it would become clear that the... tone... the instrument made was modulated by the way the bag was squeezed.

Flanking the ranks were two pegasi, who were walking for the simple reason that it is hard to fly and work the bagpipes with your wing at the same time.

Just to add to the din, the Shetlanders began to sing, a mighty chorus:

_Hark when the night is falling  
Hear! Hear the pipes are calling,  
Loudly and proudly calling,  
Down thro' the glen.  
There where the hills are sleeping,  
Now feel the blood a-leaping,  
High as the spirits of Shetland stallions._

_Towering in gallant fame,  
Shetland my mountain hame,  
High may your proud standards gloriously wave,  
Land of my high endeavour,  
Land of the shining river,  
Land of my heart for ever,  
Shetland the brave._

_High in the misty Shetlands,  
Out by the purple islands,  
Brave are the hearts that beat  
Beneath Shetland skies.  
Wild are the winds to meet you,  
Staunch are the friends that greet you,  
Kind as the love that shines from fair filly's eyes._

_Towering in gallant fame,  
Shetland my mountain hame,  
High may your proud standards gloriously wave,  
Land of my high endeavour,  
Land of the shining river,  
Land of my heart for ever,  
Shetland the brave._

The pipes and drums fell silent; only the tramp of marching hooves accompanied a single voice that rose into the air; a young stallion's, full of passion.

_Far off in sunlit places,  
Sad are the Shetland faces,  
Yearning to feel the kiss  
Of sweet Shetland rain.  
Where tropic skies are beaming,  
Love sets the heart a-dreaming,  
Longing and dreaming for the homeland again._

If the first wall of sound had been devastating enough, the second eruption of bagpipe, drum and song – this time at close range – literally shook windows.

_Towering in gallant fame,  
Shetland my mountain hame,  
High may your proud standards gloriously wave!  
Land of my high endeavour,  
Land of the shining river,  
Land of my heart for ever,  
Shetland the brave!_

With a final roll of the drums, not to mention a few patriotic tears in their eyes, the procession crashed to a halt, directly in front of the reception stand.

The Laird Roanald an Daergdyer gazed through blue eyes at the ponies on the welcoming stand. He was an impressive chap, a shaggy roan broad in the shoulders; his ceremonial yoke made him look more so, a large thing bearing the tartans and badges of every clan in the Shetlands and thus representing not only his country, but also the burden he bore as Laird. He stood foursquare and proud, head high, beneath a tam-o-shanter bearing a plume of pheasant feathers above a silver emblem of a thistle.

Mayor Mare, five-sixths of Harmony Incarnate, and roughly 99.7% of Ponyville's population gaped back, stunned. (The exception was Fluttershy, who on the last chorus had curled up into a tight ball with her wings over her ears.)

The silence drew out, then one of the piper pegasi behind him ambled up and recognised a face.

"Hey up there Rainbow Dash!" he cried cheerfully, "Ah tol' ye we'd be puttin' on a wee show, didna'?"

She blinked. "Y... yeah," she stuttered, "but that... was..."

"Amaaazing," Pinkie breathed, her mane hanging limply. How in all Equestria was she going to match up to _that?_

The Laird simply raised an eyebrow as he looked around at the piper, a faint smile crossing his lips. That smile was reflected back at him by roughly two dozen openly grinning Shetlanders.

Sensing the din was over, Fluttershy began to uncurl tentatively.

Someone in the crowd started the applause, and soon the Shetlanders were surrounded by the roar of applauding ponies. Having no hands, ponies clap by drumming their hooves on the ground, and as such can build up quite a sound. The Shetlanders basked in the adulation, several laughing openly and a few offering some choice commentary to each other.

Fluttershy immediately curled up again.

"Well..." Mayor Mare blinked as the applause died down, then shifted into official mode. "Good Shetlanders all," she began, "as mayor of Ponyville, it is my pleasure to welcome you to our fair town, home of Harmony Incarnate."

Rainbow glanced over at where Fluttershy was still curled up in a ball and nudged her with a hoof. Fluttershy peered nervously out of her mane, then realised the noise really was over and carefully uncurled.

"We offer you the key to our town, and our hospitality for tonight, and tomorrow as well, before you resume your travel to Canterlot."

"Scoots!" Sweetie Belle hissed in that foalish whisper you can hear a mile away, "that's your cue!"

"Huh?" Scootaloo was still mesmerised by the Shetlanders.

"Never mind," the unicorn filly groused as she grasped one end of the key in her mouth, "I'll dm mm!"

"Sweetie Belle!" Rarity hissed at her, not just scandalised but ignored. "No!"

"No I'll do it!" Applebloom ignored Applejack's hissed order to stay put and raced over to grab hold of the other end. "Lmm gm!"

"Hey! That's my job!" Scootaloo snapped out of it and lipped onto the middle. "Yuf tuuf lm _gf!_"

Mayor Mare, Rarity and Applejack winced as the ceremonial key, instead of being presented in a suitably dignified fashion, was instead half-dragged, in the same confused way ants carry a twig, to the increasingly amused Laird in the mouths of three bickering fillies.

"Ah think I'll be a-taking that off ye hooves, lassies," he said at last, " although it seems tae me that ye've already unlocked goodwill a'tween us!"

The mayor blinked again. "Ah..." She watched as the Laird plucked the key in his own lips and carefully slid it into his neck pouch... sporran... thing. "An' who be ye three then?" He asked kindly.

"Uh... I'm Scootaloo," the little pegasus quavered uncertainly, "um... and - and this is Applebloom and this is Sweetie Belle," came out in a rush as she indicated the pony and unicorn fillies respectively. They blinked up at him, while Applejack and Rarity held their breaths, hoping they wouldn't reveal themselves to be the Cutie Mark Crusaders and ruin things even more than they had.

"Weell... tae think yon key tae ye toon ha' be given by all three tribes taegether!" The fillies blinked uncomprehendingly at him as he lifted his shaggy head to address the crowd. "It may nae be wha' ye were intendin', but at hame 'tis t' way such things are done, as a show o' unity an' harmony. So on behalf o' mysael', ma' family, t' rest o' these reprobates–" he turned to mock-glare at the guardsponies, who just grinned back at him, "– 'an t' entire Shetlands, I thank 'ee for your warm welcome, an' accept your offer o' hospitality!"

* * *

Zecora, as far as she was concerned, had got as close to those Shetland oafs as she desired this morning, thank _you_ very much. Even at her hut inside the Everfree, she had heard their chorus that afternoon as they no doubt reached Ponyville. "I hope they are together banding to make sure their town remains standing," she grumbled, then frowned at her ingredients shelves. The one herb she needed and she was out...

A little while later an irritated Zebrabwean was walking through the Everfree's undergrowth, eyes and nose seeking mint. Today, she decided, was not a good day. In all the bucking around readying the contraceptives, abortifacients and hangover cures that her neighbours would inevitably need after those... _hooligans!_ That was the word... had been, she'd forgotten to take time out to top up the herbs for her favourite tea! That was...

She froze and her ears swivelled to catch the sounds of somepony crashing through the underbrush. From the smell, he had been travelling hard and long, but the direction was –

"Ho traveller! You sound unravelled," Zecora called, "Why do you take the road untravelled?"

There was a pause in the crashing, then the traveller emerged. Zecora felt her heart sink as she realised that she was face to face with a damnable Shetlander.

This barbarian stallion, though, looked like he'd been travelling all night. His woollen blanket was so worn, stuck with twigs and and holed with thorns as to be virtually a rag, and his sporran was rusted and rotten. They matched the matted coat and mane framing dull, dark brown eyes.

"Ponyville," he said after a half-minute's shared staring, "Where be Ponyville?"

Zecora turned and pointed a hoof. "Go that way an hour or two, and you will reach your kind. I heard them come that long ago. What made you fall so far behind?"

A light flickered in the stallion's eyes, a light that glittered disturbingly.

"T' cooward left twa days afore Ah knew," the Shetlander growled, "Ah've been runnin' hard since then, an' noo Ah have 'im."

He turned to head on, then stopped as if remembering something. "Thankee, kind mare," he said at last, as though he rarely had reason to say such things. "Twa hoors," he murmured to himself as he walked, then trotted away, "an' Ah'll be rightful..."

Zecora just stood there, foreleg raised in shock, all thought of mint gone from her head with the last word she heard.

Had that colt really said, "Ah'll be rightful Laird"?

* * *

_Silphium:_ A herb probably related to fennel, known for its contraceptive properties. In reality, this plant went extinct due to over-harvesting.

_Zebrabwe:_ The distant, southern lands where Zecora hails from.


	5. The Legend of Equus and Epona

**Chapter 5: The Legend Of Equus And Epona**

The afternoon had passed relatively quietly, the small matters of getting the Shetland delegation housed in the Hotel Ponyville, and of preparations for the welcoming banquet, notwithstanding.

Ponyville's Town Hall had been done up to the elevens by Rarity, with thistle images and plenty of ribbons woven into tartan-like patterns. The Shetlanders, most of whom could identify them on sight, politely ignored the fact that most of said patterns didn't exist in reality.

Their attention, as they entered, had been taken up by the large wagon in the middle of the floor. Shortly thereafter, everypony found out where Pinkie Pie had got to, as the machinery (and the Laughter Incarnate waiting inside) literally exploded into her Welcome Song.

Fortunately the welcomees didn't take her surprise as an assault. Maybe her silly little dance helped.

"I've never seen ponies go through night cider so fast," Applejack said to Twilight around an enthusiastically shovelling Applebloom, "Good thing I had a word with Single Malt."

Twilight just nodded. She'd wondered why delivery ponies had been queued up behind his store. She took a swig from her own mug of day cider - she had no head for drink, and couldn't afford to let the home side down.

The noise level was rising as the number of kegs diminished, and several of the visiting lads struck up a song.

_Ah was up tae me plot in t' muck, Sir,  
Wi' a peat contract down in t' bog  
When me shovel it struck something hard, Sir,  
That Ah thought were a rock or a log  
T'was a box of the finest old oak, Sir,  
T'was a foot long, an' four inches wide  
An' not giving a damn fae t' Fairies  
Ah took a quick shufti inside_

Next to her Mayor Mare was talking to the Laird, discussing politics as played in the Shetlands. "So nopony can directly nominate themselves?" she asked in surprise. The chorus swelled up at that point and drowned her out.

_Now Ah opened the lid o' this box, Sir,  
An' Ah swear that mah story is true  
T'was an ancient an' old Shetland condom  
A relic o' Laird Harvest Moon_

Sweetie Belle and Applebloom suddenly found their sister's forehooves clapped to their ears, while those worthies glared daggers at the oblivious singers.

_T'was an ancient an' old Shetland condom  
Three hooves long, an' made of Muc hide,  
Wi' a little gold tag on it's end, Sir,  
Wi' his name, rank, an' stud fee inscribed_

"Sorry?" the Laird asked, leaning over. Mayor Mare repeated her query.

"Tha's right!" Roanald had swapped his yoke for a long tartan scarf which wrapped around his neck, then down one shoulder and under his barrel before rising to be once again wrapped around his flanks. The plumed tam-o-shanter stayed, however.

"Nay pony can blow his own pipes for t' Lairdship," the shaggy roan winked, "Not directly, any road." The assembled drunken choir had no such compunction about blowing _their_ own pipes, however.

_Now, Ah cast me mind back thru the ages  
Tae the days o' that horny old goat  
Wi' his wife lyin' by on t' bed, Sir,  
As he stood by t' fire in his coat  
An' Ah thought that I heard Harvest whisper  
As he stood in t' fire's rosy light  
"Well, you've had yer own way long enough, dear...  
'Tis the hairy side outside, tonight!"_

The song mercifully ended in a burst of laughter and clapping. Rarity and Applejack scowled, then cautiously removed their hooves from their little sisters' ears.

"What was that for?" Sweetie Belle turned around to look up at her big sister.

"That song was disgusting," Rarity shuddered, still glowering at the singers, "and it wasn't meant for foals' ears."

"So what's a condom?" Applebloom asked, at almost _exactly _the time Applejack decided that young fillies like her should _really _be in bed at this hour. Rarity agreed this was a very sensible decision and the two of them made their excuses before escorting a brace of protesting foals homeward.

"Directly?" Mayore Mare looked confused. "What do... oh!"

"Ye're a smart lass. Tha's right, there be a mile of favour-tradin' an' chummin' up tae convince yer fellow Thanes tae speak for thee, while they want ye tae speak for them, an' och, round an' round everypony goes..." the Laird shook his head. "But in t' end it all comes doon tae a secret ballot. Ah well! At least I won't be about for t' next one."

Soothecup, his wife, shook her golden head and laughed. "Aye, it was absolute bedlam! Every day some young stud bringin' wee gifties or offers of..." she gazed down the table where their sons sat guard over the budding mare that was their sister. "But ah drew t' line when they offered marriage contracts."

Twilight shook her head at that. Treating marriage as a political tool? That was something out of those really trashy historical romances that she _only_ kept in the library because ponies might take them out and that _she _would never read even late at night when nopony could see _honest!_

Still... she looked down the table at the Laird's foals. The filly Winterberry – really, almost a mare – was almost identical to her dam, save that Soothecup's eyes were a soft grey and Winterberry's were a vibrant ruby. She seemed to glow like snow and gold between the darker pelts of her younger brothers.

Rianblade was a brown, bulky pony with a mane the colour of his sire's coat. Ice-blue eyes continually scanned the assembly as if looking for threats. He reminded Twilight of the Royal Guard.

Amhránaílore was much the same colour coat, but he had his dam's eyes and mane. His scrutiny of the hall, when he bothered to look up, was more relaxed. His slender frame suggested a life of the mind.

"Aye," Roanald's voice jolted Twilight out of her reverie, "Ah swore tae Equus and Epona that Ah wouldnae use mah filly in such a way. An' at t' Council I let 'em ken that any swine who tried wouldnae win my favour... then or ever."

"Equus and Epona?" a young voice piped up from beside Twilight's couch. Spike looked up from the half-eaten gemstone he was consuming. "Why'd you swear at them?"

Twilight and Mayor Mare cringed, but the Laird and his wife just burst out laughing. "Ah didnae swear _at_ 'em, Ah swore _tae_ 'em, laddie!"

"Huh?" Spike looked confused and irritated as Roanald's meaning flew over his head, hitting the wall with a plop. "Why?"

"So, t' wee dragon wants tae hear the auld tale?" Soothecup looked amused. "Do they nae ken such lore t' pass ontae their foals?"

Twilight shuffled hooves uncomfortably at the veiled rebuke. "Uh... I'm more interested in the practical aspects of magic, than... ancient legends," she mumbled uncomfortably.

"An' yet yon Elements o' Harmony were thought t' be legend, an' here they are 'round ye necks," the Laird's wife sounded amused. Twilight just blushed with embarrassment.

"Still, 'tis a tale oft told, an' well loved by our kin," the mare looked down again at Spike. "So set ye comfy an' listen tae t' story o' our forebears."

As she spoke, to Twilight's surprise, the Shetlanders gradually stopped their singing and boasting and gluttony, as a wave of silence and attention swept the hall. All eyes and ears were on the Laird's wife as she spoke, her voice slipping into an ritualistic cadence.

"Before t' beginnin' o' t' world, before e'en tae beginnin' o' time itsael', nothin' existed, nothin' but Chaos and Shadows.

"An' yon Chaos was formless an' e'er-changin', and ye Shadows were lost an' wi'out place nor direction. There were nae ground t' stand on, nae sun or moon, nae sky in which tae spread wings; nae water tae drink, nae e'en sweet grass tae eat.

"An' there were Two, who saw t' Chaos an' t' Shadows, an' they spoke tae each other, an' agreed that this couldnae stand.

"An' so they gave themsael's shapes, wi' eyes that looked afore 'em, an' strong legs an' hooves for runnin', an' so they began tae gallop."

Twilight frowned. That was the trouble with creation myths. They just didn't make sense! If there was no time, how could anypony know what had gone before, or even know they were ponies at...

She looked up in surprise. Almost every Shetlander was softly drumming their hooves in a slow tempo, accompanied by a soft chant punctuated by snorting. As though they were running.

"An' they galloped, an' galloped, an' soon when the Two looked behind 'em, lo!" Soothecup recited, "They were nae more in t' place they had been, an' so Space was made.

"An' still they galloped, an' their hooves found purchase, an' found it again, an' in their runnin' Earth were brought intae bein'.

"An' as they ran, their hooves dug intae t' Earth, an' kicked it intae high heaps, an' they became Mountains, and dug great holes, an' they became Valleys, an' the sweat poured off their flanks, an' it fell tae t' ground an' became Water an' Lakes an' Rivers an' Seas.

"An' still they galloped! Fae now they saw summat different, summat that showed 'em tae Earth they ran on, an' so they beat with their wings an' put on a mighty spurt, so hard that t' Earth spun beneath 'em, so that they were borne backward from whate'er they were chasin', an' they became tired, an' had tae rest, an' so Time began."

The Shetlanders slowed their chanting and hoof-drumming as Soothecup's voice slowed down as well.

"An' the Two were breathin' hard, in an' out, an' when they breathed out, out came the Air, an' it became t' Sky.

"An' they looked ahead, at where t' different thing waited, an' they cried in frustration as t' spinnin' Earth bore them backwards, an' stamped their hooves upon tae ground so hard, it caught Fire!"

Almost everypony jumped as the Shetlanders punctuated this with a mighty thump of hooves.

"An' they were amazed, for in t' Fire's light, they truly saw t' Earth fae the first time, but they also saw that t' Fire was burnin' t' Earth they had made, an' they wouldnae have that!

So they tried tae kick it awa', but t' Fire just landed in another spot and continued to burn t' Earth, an' in their anger t' Two found a new power, an' it grew out o' their haids and left Horns, an' it seized t' Fire an' flung it high intae t' Sky! An' so was t' first Magic done.

"An' as it were thrown, it broke intae pieces, an' t' largest became t' Sun, and the next largest t' Moon, an' all t' rest o' the wee bits became Stars, an' they cast their Light upon t' Earth, an' t' Two finally looked upon each other.

"An' they saw their Mouths, with which they had first spoken tae each other, an' their Ears, with which they had heard each other, an' they saw each other's Eyes, in each other's Haids.

"An' they saw their Horns, an' their Hooves on their Laigs; they nosed each other's Manes and Tails an' Wings, an' wondered at their Noses, an' they asked themsael's, What are we?

"An' they puzzled o'er that, an' stamped their hooves an' flicked their tails an' flapped their wings, an' realised that not only they needed Names, but all t' things they had brought into bein' needed them too. For unless ye know who an' what ye are, ye are nothin'.

"So they named t' Earth an' t' Waters, they named t' Sky an' t' Sun an' Moon an' Stars, an' finally they named themsael's.

"An' t' Name they gave themsael's both was Alicorn, an' they were content for a wee while, but soon they realised that Alicorn though they be, they were not t' same bein', fae one was a Mare and the other a Stallion, an' needed their own names.

"An' so they spake tae each other, an' t' Mare said, I am Epona. An' t' Stallion spoke, sayin' I am Equus, an' they were happy, for now they knew who they were, an' they rested as t' Earth rolled beneath the Sky, an' t' Sun was replaced by t' Moon, an' thus t' first Day ended, an' Equus an' Epona slept through t' first Night."

Laird Roanald poured some water into his wife's cup and offered it to her in an oddly reverent manner. She accepted it gracefully, wet her whistle, then resumed. Twilight closed her eyes. Was there no end to this windy myth? All these ands, ands, _ands_ were too much!

"An' in t' first true Morning, Equus an' Epona woke, an' they named what they had done, and knew Waking and Sleep, and were refreshed.

"An' they explored the Earth, which was still all so new and bare, and they saw different things in the Earth, an' they named the many types of Rock, and Dirt, and Gems, an' played and chased each other through Caves and o'er Mountains and across Streams, an' finally Epona spread her Wings and discovered Flight, an' Equus joined her in t' Sky, an' in their joining t' first seeds o' life were scattered across the Earth, an' became tall Trees with sweet Fruit, an' lush green Grasses, an' all t' Plants o' t' world."

Twilight blinked, then fought to suppress a blush when she realised what 'joining' meant. Of _course_ there had to be sex in a creation myth!

"An' Equus an' Epona marvelled at this, an' they alighted on t' Earth, an' discovered that t' grasses an' fruit were good tae eat, an' so they discovered Food, an' afterwards they tasted t' Water, an' found it good Drink.

"An' so they spent their days explorin' t' Earth an' Namin' its Plants, an' Epona became great with foal, an' soon Epona begat three foals.

"An' one had nay wings, but only a horn, an' they named him Unicorn; an' one had nay horn, only wings, an' they named him Pegasus; an' one had nay horn or wing, an' they named her Pony.

An' so Equus an' Epona raised their three foals, an' lo! Pegasus discovered he had power o'er t' Sky, an' could affect when it rained an' when it blew. An' lo! Unicorn discovered he had power o'er Magic, an' could bend it tae his will an' work wonders. An' lo! Pony discovered she had power o'er the Earth, an' could bid Plants tae grow or not as she saw fit. An' these were t' first Titans of Equus an' Epona.

An' so Time passed, an' they wandered t' Earth an' flew in t' Sky an' brought Plants tae all the World. An' the Titans o' t' Ponies matured, an' they saw that they were adult an' beautiful..."

Twilight bit her lip to avoid groaning. Her tutors and study had confirmed that no matter how outlandish the creation myth, sooner or later the taboos of rape and incest got involved.

"...An' so Unicorn an' Pegasus covered Pony, an' she foaled all t' Titans of t' Animals, which walked t' Earth, an' t' Birds who soared intae t' Sky, an' Fish that swam tae all t' waters o' t' World.

_Oh sweet Princesses_, Twilight prayed, _don't let her start..._

To her dismay, Soothecup chanted through a laundry list of incestuous covering, as Titans and even Epona and Equus basically covered each other and quite a few inanimate objects as well, producing every living thing (and quite a few nonliving) that existed in Equestria.

"But t' fairest o' all were those who resembled t' first Sire and Dam, an' t' first Titans Three, for they were t' first true Ponies an' Unicorns an' Pegasi, t' first tae behold t' World they had been gifted, an' so t' first Tribes gathered before their Sire an' Dam, an' they said –"

"YE WHO CALL YESAEL' LAIRD! AH CHALLENGE 'EE!"

* * *

_ELEVENS, TO THE: _Equestrian equivalent of 'to the nines'.

The oncoming fixture between the Ponyville Elementals and Shetland Visitors is proving to be a right pain. Ah well.


	6. Mucmarfóir

**Chapter 6: MUCMARFÓIR**

"What the hay?" Twilight gasped before she caught herself.

In the doorway stood an earth pony – a Shetlander by his coat, a brown so dark he was almost black, and his eyes were almost the same hue, but alight in a way that suggested zeal bordering on madness. His coat was not just Shetland shaggy, but matted with dirt and not a few twigs, as were the half-rotten sporran and ratty blanket he wore. Quite simply, he looked less like a pony and more like a badly made golem.

"Who be ye tae challenge t' rightful Laird?" Rianblade was on his feet almost immediately, ears back and ready to attack. "Explain yesael gobshite!"

"So ye be t' Laird then." The stranger's voice went flat. "Well nae for long, ye pampered fluffy. Shetland dinnae need some soft bugger, they need a warrior – tae lead 'em in battle 'gainst t' Muc –"

The watching ponies were divided into two camps. The Ponyville contingent were completely bewildered by what was going on and shocked by the insult the newcomer had delivered to their guest. The Shetlanders to a pony knew what was going on, knew who the gatecrasher was, and looked like they wanted to rend him limb from limb.

"Oh aye?" Rianblade sneered, slowly walking around the table and down to the centre of the hall, "An' wha' makes ye think ye're so grand fae it?"

"Aren't you going to stop this?" Twilight turned to look at Mayor Mare, who was whispering to the Laird.

"Nay," he murmured back, "We allus kenned that Mucmarfóir there was more'n a mite touched, an' my donnybrook days are o'er. Let my son teach 'm a lesson."

"Who?" Twilight asked automatically, her eyes drawn back, like almost everypony's, to the two circling stallions in the middle of the hall.

"Ah'll tell 'ee later," Roanald replied.

"'Ave I nae taken t' fight tae those snouty bastards?" Mucmarfóir was almost screaming at Rianblade. "_Ah_ 'twas that slain t' coven by Fraoch Móinéar! An' stopped that monster Grault from attackin' Uisce Milis! _Ah've _sent more o' them foul things along t' Low Road than thee ever will –"

"Och," the Laird's son rolled his eyes, "get _on_ wi' it!" And with that he reared and threw the first levade.

What followed was a display of fighting that shocked Ponyville somewhat less than the enthusiastic barracking from their Shetland guests. Both Mucmarfóir and Rianblade seemed to be – no, _were_ – hellbent on killing each other. At first circling and attempting to line up bone-crushing kicks, the two eventually charged, raking each other with their forehooves and biting each other hard enough to draw blood. Eventually the two stallions, locked together, were just rolling on the floor, bleeding profusely, but neither willing to give up.

Rianblade's face was a cold mask, and he fought with an equally cold, clinical precision. Mucmarfóir, on the other hand, seemed to be in a frenzy, teeth snapping at any body part he could, cracked hooves tearing through skin.

Also, Rianblade was rested from the day's travels, while Mucmarfóir had been travelling almost nonstop for far longer. Despite his passion, his energy was fading fast, and soon Rianblade managed to wriggle out of Mucmarfóir's hold.

The last thing the wild pony saw that night was both of Rianblade's back hooves smacking into his skull.

The Laird's son stood bloody but with head high, breathing hard, looking directly at his sire. Around him the thunder of Shetlanders hammering their hooves in applause and cheering contrasted with the near catatonia of their hosts.

"I thank ye for lettin' mah son handle this wee interruption," the Laird said to the mayor, "Now, can we borrow one o' ye jail cells to stick that dafty in fae t' night?"

Mayor Mare gaped at him, completely stunned.

* * *

A short while later the guardsponies had been and hauled away Mucmarfóir, where he was getting some slightly rougher treatment for his wounds than Rianblade, who suffered Nurse Redheart stoically.

"So, who _was _that pony?" Twilight finally asked again. "And why was he challenging you?"

"His name is Mucmarfóir," Roanald an Deargdyer said grimly, "An' his tale is a grim an' bleak 'un. For years ago, afore he gained his... cutie mark... he was just a wee colt livin' in a croft near Loch Earraigh Fuar..."

Everyone settled, and the Shetlanders checked their drinks.

"If things had been different, perhaps that wee colt wouldnae ha' come home tae find t' Muc a-visitin'. And when t' Muc visit, they bring nary a plate, or wee gifties, but terror, pain, an' death, if ye be lucky.

"Alas, the wee colt found his sire dead, an' half-eaten by t' filthy bastards, an' his dam t' same, but as we all ken t' Muc have a taste for..."

He paused and looked around. His hosts were looking more than a little shocked and horrified.

"...Well, I willnae say, but every Shetlander knows what those swines do. An' worse... his sister missin', which means she were probably given tae stones..."

Every Shetlander in the hall shuddered, several whispering what sounded like prayers to Equus and Epona. Whatever being 'given tae stones' entailed, it was clearly a fate worse than death.

"So he's dedicated his life since then tae roamin' t' Shetlands, killin' every last one o' t' Muc he finds. Tha's how he got his cutie mark..."

"What was it?" Twilight asked, "I couldn't make it out."

"It's a Muc's severed head," and Twilight shuddered. Looking around, she saw almost everypony looked repulsed as well – even Shetlanders. "He's a crazed one, an' we have witnesses who say he thinks nowt of corrallin' anypony he can intae war parties. Nothin' matters tae him except slaughtering Muc.

The Laird shook his shaggy head. "He has nae clan, nae home, nae family... an' now he seems tae have nae sanity! There's nae been a duel for the Lairdship for o'er two thousand years!"

* * *

Later that night, Twilight wrote a letter to Celestia.

_Dear Celestia,_

_The Shetlanders arrived, singing, and were welcomed. But at the banquet tonight, another pony arrived and challenged the Laird to a duel. The Laird's son fought him, and he is now being held in the Ponyville police station._

_According to the Laird, this "Mucmarfoir" (I am not sure of the spelling, so I have combined words from a Shetlandic dictionary) lost his family years ago and has been hunting the Muc ever since. Presumably this is why he named himself "Pig Killer" if this dictionary is right._

_What should we do? The Laird does not leave until the day after tomorrow, when his train will be ready as per your instructions. From his attitude, I suspect he might attempt to attack the Laird again._

_I apologise for the bad writing, but our guests didn't really want to stop banqueting, boasting, or drinking. In fact it wasn't until what the Laird called a "wee barney" (and anypony would describe as a general brawl!) broke out that the banquet was declared over._

_Your faithful (and very tired!) Student,_

_Twilight Sparkle_

Rolling up the scroll, it trailed behind her as she sought out Spike. The baby dragon was already asleep, and Twilight felt a pang of shame before she shook him with a forehoof.

"Twi'? What?" Spike was understandably grumpy.

"I need you to send this to the princess," she explained, swinging the scroll towards him. The little dragon took it with a bad grace before flaming it into the familiar green vapour that trailed southwards to Canterlot.

* * *

Luna was in a pensive mood, and it was reflected in the tension of her guardsponies. The Inhabitant was still restive, and she now had evidence as to why.

Her eye trailed to the documents before her. Witness reports. Scene descriptions. And evidence photos that she wished she didn't have to see. A farmhouse four hours north of Sweetwater, with its front door smashed in. The interior trashed, and spattered with blood. A stallion's corpse, much of it missing, bearing a cutie mark of a garden hoe. A mare's, what was left of her face still screaming, and her belly –

Luna shuddered. The creatures – boars, unless the corpse they'd left was just another victim – had torn her open with their _teeth_, for buck's sake, while she was still alive, and then there was...

She squeezed her eyes shut. There had been a colt. Some of it had still been left behind.

The strange thing though was that there were _two_ sets of pig tracks. The trotters had first arrived not long after sundown yesterday, when the boar had died. Then they had returned... but nobody knew yet whether that was before or after the family had been slaughtered.

A bustle at the entrance to the throne room turned out to be a messenger. "Your Highness," he said with a little nervousness creeping in, "I have a report from the crime laboratory..."

"Give it here," she said a little sharply, her magic snatching the document out of the messenger's hooves a little more roughly than necessary. Perusing it, her mouth thinned into a hard line.

They'd arrived before. And a singular piece of scat was found...

Her eyes widened as she stared at the photo of it, her blood turning to ice. Then a flare of green resolved itself before her, making her blink. The picture fell to the ground as she caught the newly arrived letter from Ponyville. The messenger stared at what was in that image in shock.

"Thank you," he heard, and jerked his eyes up to the icy ones of Luna, "That will be all."

She ignored the fleeing pony as she frowned at Twilight's missive. Technically she was reading Celly's mail, but she would forgive her. Besides, she needed her sleep.

* * *

Princess Celestia was roused roughly from her slumber by a highly energetic hoof. "Who in the hay... Loo, what in the world –"

"No time sister!" Luna's expression killed the reprimand Celestia was about to deliver. "_They_ are walking the earth, and They're after the Laird! They're heading to Ponyville!"


	7. Stallionscaping

**Chapter 7: STALLIONSCAPING**

Ponyville woke the following morning, the Shetlanders somewhat later. The hotel cooks were kept busy cooking eggs and porridge for roughly thirty-odd hungover guests.

In the Royal Suite, Soothecup looked up as Rianblade entered the main room, where breakfast had arrived and was steaming quietly on the table. "Are ye feelin' well, Rian?" she asked solicitiously, making the stallion's eyes roll. After all, he wasn't a little colt any more.

Amhránaílore caught his eye, and rolled his own. Rianblade grinned at him. Both were grown up, and both were sure they had outgrown the need for their dam's fussing. Their dam of course would reject that notion outright.

"Ah'm fine ma," he said in a slightly embarrassed tone, "Yon Mucmarfóir laid nary a hoof on me."

"It were more than that!" Winterberry exclaimed over her porridge (which was no shade on mama's brose, as far as she was concerned.) "He _bit_ ye, several times! An' those _hooves_ of his, Ah saw'm cut intae ye like ye were one o' t' Muc –"

"Sister!" Rianblade stamped a hoof on the floor, causing the ponies in the room below to wince in pain. "Ah tol'ye 'twas nowt. That dafty were tired afore he barged in an' started playin' t' gobshite. Da," and he shot a longsuffering look at his father, "Do _all _mares insist on actin' like ye're allus t' foal?"

Roanald raised his eyebrows while munching on a mouthful of scrambled eggs. He looked thoughful, plotting a course between stroking his son's ego and avoiding getting his wife in a kicking mood. "Well," he said at last, "we be important tae 'em, aye?"

A snort came from Amhránaílore's direction. The two mares turned to him, but there was something absolutely fascinating about his plate.

* * *

Mucmarfóir woke with in much worse condition. Everything seemed to be aching, he could barely open his eyes, and the straw pallet he was laying on was...

His eyes popped open as far as they could, showing him a fuzzy image of a jail cell. Its walls bore the inevitable patina of scratched graffiti, and sturdy bars on the one window and the corridor side made it clear that he wasn't getting out any time soon. _Damn it!_ he thought to himself, _t' damn Laird bested me, I'll be takin' t' Low Road home for certain..._

A face wearing a helmet peered into the cell. "You're awake already?" He sounded surprised. "Up for some breakfast?"

"B... breakfast?" The Shetlander blinked at him stupidly, then shrugged. "Eh... why not? Help weigh me down fae t' hempen jig won't it?"

"The what?" To say the guardsman was baffled would be stating the obvious. "Is that some... oh never mind. I'll push it in for you. No funny stuff."

Mucmarfóir watched him turn his tail and head back, then flopped his head onto the straw again. It'd all gone wrong. He'd travelled hard, an' nearly killed himself – for nowt. He'd simply been worn down 'til the Laird had hoofied his haid – in front o' a crowd at that!

A sigh escaped him. He knew that quite a few ponies didnae ken his intentions, which were clear as day: Get rid o' t' Muc an' Them Under Stones. But 'twas summat nae pony could do alone. But tryin' tae get your fellow Shetlanders tae ken how important this was... what was gettin' harvests in or fences mended compared to freein' bonny Shetland from those monsters?

A scraping caught his attention as did the smell of bread. The guard had returned and pushed a battered metal tray bearing a wee loaf and a cup under the door. "Push them back when you're done," he said and moved away.

Mucmarfóir looked at it, then managed to rise and approach the tray on wobbly legs. He sat on the concrete floor because he wanted tae, nay because his legs wouldnae support him already...

The bread wasn't all that fresh, but the water was welcome, and Mucmarfóir decided it would do for his undoubtedly last meal. As if to confirm his suspicions, voices heralded the Laird's arrival, flanked by two of the Royal Guardsponies assigned to Ponyville.

"Ye're nay t' Laird," Mucmarfóir said almost immediately, "Ye're nay t' one who gave me t' buck..."

"Ah _am_ t' Laird, ye gobshite," the roan retorted, "Mah son got in afore Ah could go a reel or two on ye. An' a'course he didnae leave me a chance did he?"

Mucmarfóir just glared at the Laird. "Then mah challenge still stands. Fae t' Lairdship, tae t' death. An' when 'tis o'er, Ah'll lead all t' Shetlands tae victory o'er t' Muc an' Them Under Stones!"

The Guards tensed as Mucmarfóir's voice rose and so did he, legs stiff. The Laird, on the other hand, just looked at him boredly.

"Finished, 'as thee?"

The brown pony's eyes blazed behind puffy eyelids at the dismissal, and he would have lunged except for the Guards' applying their magic, as well as his own legs still being unsteady.

"We're nae in t' Shetlands anymore, Mucmarfóir of Nae Clan," Laird Roanald an Deargdyer informed him sternly, "An' there'll be nae duellin' tae t' death or anything else here. Ah and mah family be guests here, an' we'll nae be breachin' t' peace afore we take t' train tae Canterlot. An' that includes ye, since ye're a Shetlander tae.

"An' when _we_ board t' train, _ye _will return tae t' Shetlands, where ye can go about killin' Muc like ye allus yearn fae." The Guards exchanged startled glances with each other. "A'sides, somehow I dinnae think ye be up tae 'nother proper donnybrookin' from wha' I ken."

* * *

An hour or so later, Mucmarfóir was released with several dire warnings ringing in his ears, which were followed up by a mare crying, "Goodness! You look a fright!"

He turned to stare at the speaker: a white unicorn with a purple mane and tail, done up to the nines and all, with what looked like three diamonds on her flank. As she was gaping at him, he regarded himself. His coat was definitely ratty, matted and dirty, not just from the night's donnybrook but also his travels. His nose wrinkled as he sniffed.

"Well, Ah could probably do wi' a wee bath," he agreed, "ken ye point me tae t' nearest pond?"

"_Pond?_" Rarity's voice rose in disbelief. "Young stallion, you're not in the Shetlands anymore, and where we're going we don't _need_ ponds!" Her horn flared and tugged on one forelimb. "Come along!"

"We?" was all Mucmarfóir was able to say as he was dragged off.

Lotus and Aloe looked up from their housekeeping when Rarity more or less hauled Mucmarfóir into the spa. "Ladies," Rarity declared, "this poor colt here needs a complete clean-up."

"Ah do?" Mucmarfóir looked bewildered at the foyer, nostrils twitching suspiciously at the commingled scents of assorted beauty products.

Then he noticed the trio of predatory grins aimed at him, and began to feel dread.

* * *

"Has anyone seen Mucmarfóir?" Roanald asked a small knot of Shetlanders loitering around the town square.

"I've nae seen t' dafty," shrugged a heathery pegasus.

"Nor I," concurred a pale tan earth pony, "An' dinnae wish tae."

"Hey up!" called an approaching Shetlander the colour of wheat, "Ye'll nae believe wha' Ah saw happenin' tae Mucmarfóir."

"Oh? An' wha' that then?" Roanald asked.

"Got hauled off tae t' Spa place by a mare," the wheat-coated one chuckled, "unicorn wi' all bonny purple mane."

"Sounds like Rarity," Roanald observed, "Makes sense, since she's Generosity Incarnate."

* * *

Mucmarfóir was more used to bracing dips in cold lochs than hot soapy water, so to him this bath was an unheard of luxury.

It also probably explained why, upon commencing what was to be his first bath of the day, the foamy surface had turned into something closely resembling Froggy Bottom Bogg.

Lotus and Aloe had shuddered at the sight, then gone to work with brush and comb, coaxing a shocking amount of dirt out of his coat; then they'd ordered him out, exchanged the resulting slurry for clean water, and ordered him back in again before resuming the arduous process.

Soaking in hot water, with two bonny fillies fussing o'er him, was, Mucmarfóir decided, quite grand. Quite grand indeed.

Except when the comb hit yet another tangle. That was unpleasant.

"This is no good," Aloe huffed at last, "your coat is in a right state. All split ends and knots and tangles! We're going to have to shear you I'm afraid."

"Shear?"

"Shear," and Aloe pulled over a contraption that seemed to focus on something like a cross between a comb and razor. "Okay Lotus, plug it in! And as for you, out you get, and you'll feel like a new pony, I guarantee it!"

As she pulled the plug out of the bath, Mucmarfóir didn't have much choice. And he was damned if he was going to show fear in front of the mares...

...which was difficult when said mares were wielding a evilly buzzing cutter all over your flanks, sending severed hair pattering (and at points plopping) to the ground.

Rarity, Lotus and Aloe were more than a little shocked to see just how scarred the Shetlander actually _was_. His coat hid all but the worst or latest gouges, bites and cuts he had received, not only from Rianblade's drubbing, but from the Muc, other creatures and worse. From his breastbone to plot, his sides, legs, barrel and flanks were caught in a net made of pain.

The shearing also revealed the gruesome nature of his cutie mark. The Laird had said that Mucmarfóir's was a pig's head, but what he _hadn't_ mentioned was that said head was torn off the body and impaled on a spear. Even in death the boar's head seemed to wear a snarl of defiance between yellowed tusks.

By the time the spa ponies had finished with their fiendish machine, Mucmarfóir closely resembled a new recruit in the Royal Guard. As well as his coat, Lotus and Aloe had unanimously (according to them) and unilaterally (according to Mucmarfóir) trimmed his mane and tail as well. Cutie mark and scarring aside, the Shetlander would not have looked out of place shivering on the parade ground before one of the Guard's drill instructors, which every cadet knew were actually ogres in disguise.

From the tub, the stallion found himself being shunted to a surprisingly comfortable couch, where the two mares set about with rasps and polish to undo what years of neglect and hard living on rocky and often frozen soil had wrought on his hooves. As it happened several entire pots of No More Cracks ("Hooves As Whole As a Newborn Foal's!") were emptied into the assorted cavities and splits and left to set. Which, Mucmarfóir couldn't help noticing, actually made standing feel much better than it had in years. He almost felt like a new pony.

"Ladies, you have outdone yourselves," Rarity declared, looking over the really quite well-formed stallion. "Now it's _my _turn. We'll make you the best dressed Shetlander ever! Come on! Next stop, Carousel Boutique!"

Mucmarfóir started to look panicked as Rarity's magic took hold and he was more or less dragged out of the spa. Whether it was the sparkle in Rarity's eyes, or that Lotus and Aloe broke into knowing giggles, is debatable.

* * *

"Bloody hell!"

"Is tha' ye Mucmarfóir?"

"What on _earth_ is that cutie mark!?"

"Look at Rarity! She's on a mission! You poor sod!"

"Princesses save us! What happened to you?"

Mucmarfóir felt Rarity was taking an entirely _too_ circuitous route to this Carousel Boutique she was speaking of. Not helping his new appearance was his increasingly anxious demeanour: head down, ears flat, and what tail survived the shearing between his legs.

"When ye clear off awa' home, fluffy, git some woolies first!"

Rarity was jerked to a stop when Mucmarfóir did. The stallion glowered at the loudmouth and stamped a hoof once, blowing loudly.

"Ah didnae hear clearly, gobshite," he growled at the smirking unicorn, "Why don't thee come say it tae mah face?"

"Don't bother about a lout like him, Mister Mucmarfóir," Rarity began.

"Ooh! 'Mister' be it noo?" The Shetland unicorn wasn't letting this entertainment go. "I 'eard yon filly call thee 'mister'. Thinkin' o' settlin' down are ye?" This statement was accompanied by a wiggled eyebrow.

"Watch your mouth!" One of the local ponies exploded. "That's Rarity Unicorn, the Element of Generosity you're talking about!"

The bravo turned from addressing "Bugger off" to the speaker back to Mucmarfóir and Rarity a little too quickly, and swayed slightly.

Mucmarfóir just blinked at her. "Are ye now?" he asked.

"Well yes," Rarity blinked back. "You mean you didn't know?"

Oddly, Mucmarfóir felt relieved. He now knew where he stood, and what to do.

"Well then, ye drunken gobshite," Mumcmarfóir addressed the loudmouth, "Ah dinnae ken, but even Ah know about Harmony Incarnate, an' ye just offered one o' them insult." He stamped again. "So, how's thee to apologise? Word? Or blood?"

"Awa' buckin' hame wi' ye," sneered the unicorn, "Ye've only got the word o' t' mare for tha', an' Ah'm nae afraid of a gurt fluffy ned like thee!"

Rarity winced as she saw violence looming. Nopony _ever_ liked being called fluffy once, let alone _twice_, and the way Mucmarfóir was bristling...

"Oh aye? Then how come ye're nae comin' o'er tae settle this?"

"Now hold on a minute you two!" The voice was authoritative and came from a rapidly descending pegasus. She had a startling rainbow mane and tail, something rarely seen in the Shetlands, and the image of a cloud with a rainbow lightning bolt adorned her flanks.

"Wha' the buck does thee want?" The braggart apparently didn't recognise Loyalty Incarnate when he saw her.

"If anyone's gonna hand out a bucking over, it's me!" Rainbow Dash declared, "Now what's going on?"

"Yon gobshite there as good as called Rarity studdy," Mucmarfóir managed to get in before the loudmouth could even string two syllables together.

"You _what?_" The pegasus' wings flared instinctively as she rounded on the loudmouth, head down and evidently braced for a charge. The fact that her chosen target weighed roughly twice as much as she did, and had more experience in brawling, was of less importance than that he'd insulted her friend and fellow heroine of Equestria. "Do you even know who you're dealing with mister?"

"Aye," the drunk declared, his Shetland blood rising as his instincts detected a wee stoush in the offing, "it be that loony o'er yonder wi' 'is hoofmaid there!"

Rainbow's face soured, partly from the offensive language and mostly from the smell of alcohol on his breath. How in the name of Harmony had he got hold of the night stuff before noon?

"You just insulted Generosity Incarnate, mister," Rainbow Dash growled, preparing to spring, "And if you want to avoid a lesson in politeness you'll take. that. insult. back."

The Shetlander just looked at her. "Awa' hame with 'ee, wench," he snorted, then went flying as Mucmarfóir shoulder-charged him, sending the pony sprawling.

"Ye've nae buckin' shame have ye? Drunk afore noon an' slandering mares – an' one o' t' Harmony Incarnate at that! Ye're nay sort of Shetlander _Ah_ want tae know!"

The drunk scrambled to his hooves, bellowing in rage, then cyan legs wrapped around him. Squealing in surprise, then outrage, he found himself being borne aloft by an irate Rainbow Dash.

"Put me doon ye blasted ponynapper! Muc-lover! Wha' t' buckin' hell ye think ye're doin'?"

"What on earth _is _she doing?" Rarity stared upward. "The pond's not that way!"

"So what else is?" Mucmarfóir wondered.

* * *

As it happened, over there was Smuts, Ponyville's sanitary engineer. Which was a fancy way of saying that he was in charge of the town dump, hiring ponies for garbage collection, burning that and burying this. His current load was _definitely_ burial material.

Latrine detail was a job so foul Smuts wouldn't dream of subjecting any other pony to it, unless requested to by the Royal Guard. While most buildings in town were already connected to the new sewage lines, there were still a few places that weren't, and that meant Smuts had to ignore his nose and fill up the honey cart.

Fortunately the honey run was getting shorter by the month. Eventually, Smuts was going to be able to set the stinking thing on fire to mark its end...

Smuts frowned at the sound of somepony yelling his head off in the distance, and he stopped to look about as much as his yoke would allow. Nopony around. And now there was an increasingly loud scream –

"Oh, shite," Mucmarfóir breathed, as quite a lot of that erupted from the distant cart.

Smuts just breathed, stunned, as a meaningful percentage of his load distributed itself on (and around) him and his cart in a fifty-hoof radius.

The drunk took a good minute to realise he really _was_ a gobshite now.

* * *

A few minutes later, Mucmarfóir found himself being pulled into a distinctive round building that seemed to be bedecked in ribbons and bows. "Carousel Boutique," Rarity identified it as she kicked the door shut behind them. The Shetlander was a little let down that it didn't make an ominous _boom_ as it closed.

"Now then, I'll just measure you up and we'll get to work," the unicorn declared as she levitated a measuring tape and a book towards her, "Before I do, can you tell me your clan tartan?"

Mucmarfóir just stared at her helplessly. "Clan?"

"Yes dear, your clan's tartan. I've been doing my research you know, so I am quite aware that every Shetland clan has its own tartan pattern." She floated the book over to him. "You _do_ recognise your clan's tartan, don't you?"

Mucmarfóir's ears sagged as he stared blankly at the flipping pages. There were ponies in kilts, ponies in scarves, ponies in hats. All tartans. The text was no help, since he had barely any schooling.

"Ah..." he felt a strange hollow feeling in his breast. Everypony knew his own tartan in the Shetlands, it was like a part of his identity...

"Ah dinnae..." Rarity gave him a puzzled look as he began to shake his head, then his legs began to tremble.

"Ah dinnae _remember!_" He sank slowly to the floor. "Ah dinnae ken mah clan... Mother Epona forgive me, Ah cannae ken mah clan..."

He remembered his family. Da with his remaining face screaming to the sky. Ma with her eyes gouged out and her belly torn open. And his little sister, one barely fledged wing stubbornly holding on to half a rib close on to a gore-tinted ear. An...

_an'_

_an' what?_

Rarity stared, bewildered, as the Shetlander rolled onto one side and began to weep for what he'd lost.

Neither of them noticed the Shetlanders peering in around the mannequins.

* * *

"Just a minute," Rarity said, blinking as she remembered something. "You lived by 'Loch Earraigh Fuar', didn't you?"

Mucmarfóir didn't reply, he just lifted a weeping head enough to nod once. Rarity levitated the book back to herself and flipped pages.

"Well, there's a – yes! There's a map here," Rarity felt her spirits lift, "Oh – it doesn't show all the lochs. Just point out where that place is and we'll know which clan is yours!"

Mucmarfóir's head jerked up again, this time in surprise. "A map?" he asked stupidly.

"Yes, a map! Were there any large towns nearby? Any mountains? I can find those on this map, so..." Rarity's excitement was growing.

"Mountains..." Mucmarfóir warily circled around painful memories. The loch dominated his mind's eye, the body of water that mirrored the sky in summer and froze over in winter. There were crags, nameless to him, and nearby the forbidden –

"Has tha' map show t' Seven Barren Sisters?"

Rarity just blinked at him. "The who?"

"The Seven Barren Sisters! They be seven great stones in circle, in a depression where nowt grows. Da allus told me tae keep awa' from 'em, said t' Sisters were evil..."

The unicorn felt her heart melt a little bit at the hope in the Shetlander's eyes, and looked down at her map. "Oh yes, it does show stone circles... wait.." she squinted at a symbol near an L-shaped body of water. "There's one here labelled the Seven Sisters... Did the loch turn to the north on the western side?"

Mucmarfóir's heart leapt. "Aye! Aye!"

Rarity glanced at the key, then nodded and turned a page, lifting the book up and showing it to the stallion. "We've found your clan... ah, Mucmarfóir an Langstoncroft!"

* * *

Outside, one of the Shetlanders pulled away from the window and wandered off with a stunned expression and a muttered, "Och buckin' hell".

"Hey up!" the first to follow him was a Shetland unicorn, who also tugged on his mane with magic to stop him. "Wha's the big shock then?"

"Yon madpony's a Langstoncroft too!" the unfortunate exclaimed, batting his sporran with one foreleg. The tartan ribbon adorning it was indeed that of the clan of long stone houses. "Ah cannae credit it, the pig-killer a member of our clan. Every bloody ned'll be givin' us horseapples when word gets out!"

* * *

Rarity had transformed into a force of creativity that had Mucmarfóir rooted to the spot, for a very good reason. If he moved at the wrong time, Rarity's scissors might cut something crucial off.

The first sartorial incursion was simple enough, a traditional kilt, which now wrapped his hindquarters and replaced his cutie mark with the Langstoncroft colours. Shortly afterwards she had absconded with his sporran, only to return with what looked like a new one, made of slate grey leatherfish hide. "Your old one's inside dear," she explained as she levitated it around his neck.

Mucmarfóir gazed at it in the mirror. Leatherfish, not being native to the Shetlands, had to be imported, and the only alternative was to use cured Muc hides – and as such hide sporrans were only worn by notable warriors. For all the emnity the Shetlanders held them, there were few ponies who would deliberately handle or create with such materials. His old sporran was, like everypony's, a regular (if decidedly decaying) canvas pouch. The ones with the big tassels and all that were just for special occasions.

_Like a-visiting the Royal Sisters,_ he thought to himself.

"Raise your forelegs," Rarity broke into his thoughts, "one at a time." Which was a good way of getting the woolen vest she'd just made onto his shoulders. The resultant look left the Shetlander blinking. The wool was a light grey, trimmed in more leatherfish dyed a shade of brown matching his own coat, and was cut around the shoulders such that it they looked squarer and more masculine.

"Well," Mucmarfóir said to his reflection, "if yon laddie in t' mirror be me, Ah be lookin' mighty grand!"

* * *

A/N: Well, from here on in, it's time to start writing this again. I've got some vignettes, including the Cutie Mark Pipers, to thrash out.


	8. Prelude to a Shetland Fling

[AN: This is pretty much half-done. Once I know what the other half is like, I'll finish this thing and post the Shetland Visitors vs Ponyville Elementals fixture.]

**Chapter 8: FRIENDLIES**

As Laird of the Shetlands, Roanald an Deargdyer was resigned to mandatory attendance at undesired events. A true stallion through and through, this morning he was currently suffering stoically through one such. Namely, accompanying his wife and daughter on a shopping expedition. He would have assigned this duty to Amhránaílore, but his son had been asked to speak to the local schoolfoals, and as such would probably still be fending off questions even after close on two hours. After all, part of a bard's duties was teaching Shetland lore.

Ponyville wasn't as large as Canterlot (a fact that Roanald would later embrace with relief), but its permanent shops were like one eternal market day. And it appeared that Soothecup an Deargdyer and Winterberry an Deargdyer were intent on visiting and investigating every one they could find.

The residents' attempts to decorate everything a la Shetlander weren't helping. If he saw another fribble-frabble or whim-wham done up in fake tartan, he was _sure_ he would scream fit to be heard from the southern border.

"Ma Laird?" Roanald turned from glowering at a window display done up in red, blue and green to see one of his retinue standing there with a worried expression. "There's a Captain Stormblade wantin' t' speak with ye at t' guardhouse."

"Captain?" Roanald frowned. "Wha's he want?"

"He wouldnae say," the shaggy pony shrugged helplessly, "but he said he needed tae speak with ye right awa'."

Roanald frowned. "Ah better see what yon Neddy wants," and with a deft shrug he deposited the bags he'd been toting onto the ground. "Be a good lad an' keep watch o'er ma wife an' daughter, aye?"

The Shetlander just nodded, staring at the loaded shopping harness with dismay. It wasn't even noon yet!

* * *

Roanald an Deargdyer soon found himself in a typically soulless conference room on the third floor of the Ponyville Guardhouse, accompanied by, to his surprise, Magic Incarnate and the mayor, along with a rather rattled-looking CO. Captain Stormblade on the other hand looked grim and immutable, hardly surprising for one of the Lunar Guard.

"Close the door," he instructed, and the guardhouse's commanding officer leapt to do so.

"Right," he then began, "Last night we received evidence that confirms a serious threat to not just Ponyville, but the Shetlands as well. We first learned of it the day the, uh, Laird and his party arrived, but didn't get confirmation until late last night."

"Oh my," Mayor Mare quavered.

"Why do I get t' sense ye're not talkin' about Mucmarfóir?" Roanald asked rhetorically.

"Because the threat is trailing several hours behind him," and Stormblade shoved several documents into the middle of the table.

"To keep this short: The night before last, the farm of Garden Hoe and his family was attacked by what appeared to be a herd of boar. That would be strange enough since there aren't any known herds in the area. They appeared to have visited a few hours before, had a brief disagreement, then came back and forced entry.

"That second visit was when the Hoe family... died... but we found something else. One track that looked like that of a boar, but seriously distorted, and then some scat, which we took a picture of before it was killed with fire."

"Oh my," Mayor Mare quavered.

The photograph was of what looked like a small pile of pig dung, except that dung generally doesn't behave in a fashion requiring killing – with or without fire.

"Them!" Twilight hissed, glaring at the abomination.

"The Muc," Roanald growled, "An' one's playin' host to one o' Them."

"Oh my," Mayor Mare quavered.

"Princess Luna only received confirmation last night," Stormblade went on, ignoring the functionary going into shock, "and I was selected to head a force to defend Ponyville when they arrive. My flight group is currently scouting for any sign of the creatures, and my ground forces will arrive in about two hours. Officially, we're passing through on an exercise."

Roanald was frowning. "When that Mucmarfóir arrived, he had all twigs and leaves in his coat," he mused, "An' I recall t' road were well cleared from t' forest yonder. Yon lad must've cut straight through..."

There was a bustle at the door and a Royal guardspegasus entered. "Captain Stormblade," he saluted, "Forward scouts report that signs show a herd of boar entered the Everfree Forest about two hours out of Sweetwater. Owing to the forest canopy we have lost track of them from that point."

"I'll bet they be followin' Mucmarfóir's trail," Roanald grunted, "t' Muc have nae fondness for 'im o'er any other pony. Wha's t' forest like fae us wi' nae wings?"

"Dangerous," Twilight spoke up, "there are creatures that attempt to eat anypony that crosses their path, deep gullies, and some ruins nopony should enter." She shuddered involuntarily, remembering the showdown with Nightmare Moon.

"Tha's good then," the Laird nodded, "seein' as t' Muc prefer a fight tae sneakin' about. All goin' well, most o' t' snouty fluffies'll get eaten afore they arrive."

"Oh my," Mayor Mare quavered.

"We'll live in hope," Stormblade's grin was wry. "But remember there's one of Them along for the ride."

"Ah'll speak tae my son, Rianblade," Roanald decided, "An' he can quietly arrange for a defence tae be prepared." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Ha'past eleven, so ye troops'll arrive about 'n hour afore noon. When's sunset set today?"

Twilight frowned. "I think the almanac said a quarter past twenty-three."

"Eight hours then," the old Shetlander nodded, "An' I doubt the snouties will be brave enough to attack during daylight hours. As long as t' lads dinna wreck 'emselves playin' hoofball or whatever we should be grand for givin' the bastards a proper welcome!"

The matching feral grins exchanged by the Laird and Captain Stormblade caused Twilight to shudder and Mayor Mare to faint.

* * *

Half an hour earlier, Cherilee had ticked the last name off the roll. "Today we have the pleasure of a visit from, ah..." she frowned at a phonetically spelled name, "Amhránaílore of the Shetland delegation, who is going to tell us about life in his homeland..."

The Shetland bard in question looked over the class with interest. This was returned by two dozen fascinated stares.

The schoolhouse was almost stereotypical, a small red building festooned with educational posters, a frieze of the Equestrian alphabet, a well-used blackboard, and ranks of foals sitting before their desks.

Unlike some popular depictions, Equestrian school desks, like most Equestrian furniture, are only _functionally _identical to human ones. Rather than being forced into a bipedal posture, schoolfoals sat on thin cushions in front of low writing surfaces which also contained their school supplies. There were two reasons for this design: Firstly, it was relatively cheap, and secondly, most foals found it hard to fall off the floor.

Amhránaílore mulled over his lesson as Cherilee introduced him; he'd talk for an hour or so, maybe one or two of the auld teachin' songs, then throw open t' floor an' brace himsael' for questions. If the wee ones ran out, well, there'd be time for another ditty or two, wouldn't there?

An' then about thirteen-o'-clock it'd be off tae where yon lads should be preppin' for a wee fling.

"But we've already covered this!" That outburst came from a foal, a yearling really if his awkward build, stretched by adolescent growth spurts, was any indication.

"Yeah," moaned his fellow yearling, whose growth hadn't spurted up, but more sideways, "We've been studying this ever since that dumb letter."

"Aye," Amhránaílore smirked at them before Cherilee could react, "But ye've been tryin' tae ken us from auld books, am I right?"

The fat one stopped blinking first. "Uh... yeah?"

"Well, there's only so much them books can tell ye, an' since mah name means Lore-Singer in Auld Equestrian, and Ah be a bard by callin –" he lifted his sporran up with one hoof to show the symbol of a scroll and drum – "ye'll truly ken us in nae time!"

* * *

The hapless Shetlander dourly waited outside the Ponyville Clinic as his Laird's mare and filly went inside. The Laird's lasses apparently liked their shopping. Especially when they had a nice strong stallion to carry it.

"Can I help you?" Nurse Redheart was on duty this morning, and looked uncertainly at the radiant young mare and her dam. Winterberry returned the uncertain look.

"We're just after some moon tea," Soothecup declared in a friendly tone, causing her foal to blush and shoot her dam a death glare.

"Moon tea?" Redheart blinked, then sniffed in a clinical fashion. "You don't seem to be coming into estrus yet."

"Och, 'tis nae for me!" Soothecup's laugh bounced around the room. "It's fae ma lass here."

Winterberry's blush deepened to a fine shade of tomato.

Redheart sniffed the air again in that clinical fashion. "She doesn't appear to be entering estrus either?"

"Nay, nay," Soothecup trundled on, ignoring the fusillade of deadly looks her daughter was sending her, "but I dinna' like tae take risks wi' ma girl here."

Winterberry bristled with embarrassment. She was almost grown, and she didn't need her ma to be hovering over her all the time! If it wasn't her ma, it was one or the other of her brothers, or some maid, all worried about her virtue. She'd read about what 'being covered' involved, and how important moon tea was, she was no foolish foal. If she ever found the right lad, however... he better have plenty of stamina. Reading was one thing, but Winterberry was _very_ curious about how things went in practice.

That was a mighty if though. The Shetlanders were all loyal to her da and would probably turn tail. That Mucmarfóir neddy was right out of contention. Which left the gentry of Ponyville, but they all looked soft and too damn meek for her tastes.

As ma escorted her out of the clinic, burbling away, Winterberry wished she was back home where the _real_ stallions were.

* * *

MOON TEA: A herbal contraceptive, mainly composed of silphium, taken by mares to prevent pregnancy, especially during their estrus period.

YEARLING: An Equestrian in their adolescence, notable for its growth spurts and degradation of common sense. Or horse sense.


	9. Scenes From a Fling

Hello folks and in that order. I had a bout of inspiration, and this means you get a fresh new chapter involving Jerome K. Jerome and has a double dose of the Cutie Mark Crusaders in it. ONWARD!

* * *

**9. SCENES FROM A FLING**

One of the many commonalities that unite sentient species is that their societies tend to develop aggression outlets; distractions where members are encouraged to invest their time and energy and generally blow off steam as opposed to each other's body parts. Equestrians are no exception.

This morning, while Mucmarfóir was receiving the riot act from the Laird, and Amhránaílore was speaking to (and fending off plenty of daft questions from) the local schoolfoals, one such outlet was being prepared by Rianblade in Ponyville Park: He, and about a dozen somewhat seedy-feeling Shetlanders, were preparing to host a reciprocal event to yesterday's welcome, what they would call 'a wee fling'.

Equestrians are rather strong on reciprocation, on the grounds that fair exchange keeps Harmony in the herd of ponykind. Having been entertained last night, it was only right to return the favour, in the eyes of the Laird.

After a reel or two to 'wake up the blood', the Shetlanders had begun work. From the carts they'd brought along, various poles and cloths emerged, and with a fair bit of shoving, pulling, and a modicum of coarse language, several marquees and standards had been raised.

"Right then," Rianblade nodded, "Time tae get t' supplies in lads! Now, we'll need tae... wha' t' buck are ye all gawpin' at?"

One raised a forehoof to the sky. A pegasus was lifting a struggling kilted figure in the air, before heading in a direction and dropping it.

"Now wha's that about?" Rianblade wondered, then started at the distant and notably un-watery splat. "Hoy!" He yelled at the distant winged figure, "What're ye about?"

The pegasus paused, then zoomed down to meet them. Rianblade blinked as he recognised Courage Incarnate. "What?" Rainbow Dash asked irritably.

"Wha's thee about, droppin' guests intae t' drink?" Rianblade stomped one hoof angrily.

"That _friend_ of yours insulted Rarity," the pegasus mare retorted, "_and_ from his breath he'd been at the straight salt as well as the night drink!"

"Hang about," somepony behind him asked, "'E looked a mite small, were 'e brown? Got 'n 'alf-gallon jar for 'is mark?"

"He's even browner now," Rainbow smirked, "I wasn't looking at his flank though."

"Little Brown Jug," Rianblade groaned, deciding two out of three characteristics were enough. "Well, on behalf o' t' lads Ah apologise for that gobshite. If Ah had my way 'e'd nae be with us. An' wha's thee mean, browner?"

"I, uh, might have dropped him in the, uh, honey wagon. I was kinda annoyed."

Silence prevailed, before the first sputterings and snorts of amusements came to pass, soon followed by giggles and finally outright peals of laughter.

"Well then," Rianblade finally managed to say, "On behalf o' t' Shetland nation please pass our apologies tae Miss Rarity! Now then lads, we 'ave a fling tae prepare!"

* * *

And what a fling it was!

The schoolfoals followed along behind Cherilee and Amhránaílore-the-Lore-Singer, goggling at the various sights.

There was plenty of bunting and traditional Shetland banners waving in the breeze; there were stalls presenting genuine Shetland wares; the music of traditional Shetland song was in the air – this time at a volume not set to incapacitate.

It was certainly busy. As well as an appreciable chunk of the Ponyville population, a detachment of Royal and Lunar guardsmen had arrived on manoeuvres, and were taking the chance for some R&R while they could.

"Who wants tae Whack-a-Muc?" a unicorn was calling, waving both a long stick and a blindfold with her magic. Behind her, a sturdy if increasingly battered clay effigy of the aforementioned species of pig swung at the end of a cord. "Who'll be getting' them goodies inside?"

"What's happening here?" Cherliee and her little herd had come up to the stall in question.

"Och, 'tis a fun party game," explained the bard, "Tha sees, yon pony is given t' stick, an' blindfolded, an' then they give yon Muc a damn good whack! If you're lucky, you'll strike t' killin' blow, an' out come all yer prizes!"

The eyes of the foals all lit up at the double delight of winning things and (no doubt) making a mess. Cherilee, however, looked troubled. "Killin' – I mean, _killing_ blow?"

"As I told ye," Amhránaílore explained, "we an' t' Muc are at odds with each other."

The teacher just blinked at him. Certainly he'd mentioned that the Shetlands were constantly having to fend off aggression from that race, but this... this was inculcating hatred from foalhood! In her mind, it seemed reasonable that somewhere, sometime, some common ground would be found between this race of pigs and ponykind, and the hoof of Friendship and Harmony would be accepted.

Smashing effigies of another race... that seemed to be a retrograde step.

Of course there was food, especially shortbread, which was being doled out by three Shetlanders and one Pinkie Pie. The kitchens of Sugarcube Corner had been full of hairy shoulders for much of the morning, and currently a kilt and tam-o'-shanter was occupied by Laughter Incarnate. Having all that help had been _so_ fun and she'd learned some new songs too! Sure, most weren't fit for the ears of baby Cakes, but she was certain that she'd find an appreciative audience somewhere else!

Speaking of which, one had gathered around Rianblade and half-a-dozen other Shetlanders, who were performing the Warrior's Reel to the lively sounds of two pipers and one lass on the hoof-drum. It was an energetic bit of dance, starting slow before gathering speed as the dancer jumped, twisted, and kicked. To do the reel right, you literally had to be fighting fit. If you did the reel often enough, you _would_ be fighting fit.

The young stallion stumbled in one of the more vigorous manoeuvres, grimacing as one of the wounds he'd received the night before protested at being pulled.

"Why're – you – stopping?" huffed a young voice.

Rianblade blinked and looked around. His fellow dancers had stopped and were grinning, like most of the crowd, off to one side. Apparently he'd picked up a small shadow, a gamboge pegasus filly who despite being pretty lathered was still surprisingly energetic.

He blinked for a moment as he remembered. "Aren't tha' one o' t' fillies what gave t' key t' Da yesterday?" He finally asked.

The little filly's ears flicked, then went back with embarrassment. It hadn't been her best moment. "Uh... yeah."

Rianblade tamped down a grin. "And wha' be thy name lass?"

"She's Scootaloo," another filly piped up. Rianblade immediately twigged that the three foals that had 'presented' the key to the town to Da were thick as thieves. "Hey! I'll try dancing too!"

"You can't dance, Applebloom," the third snorted – who was she? Oh aye, Sweetie Belle. Now Rianblade's grin escaped. "Shouldn't thee be off tae school?" he asked.

"We're here on a school trip," Scootaloo cocked her head, then flicked her tail in the Equestrian gesture of determination. "But now we're gonna try dancing wheels like you and see if we get our cutie marks!"

"Me too!" "Me three!" the other two fillies added before he could correct them, then with surprising volume all three foals shouted at once, "_Cutie Mark Shetland Dancers GO!_"

At various points about the fling, Applejack, Rarity, and Cherilee flinched.

The Shetland warrior blinked at them and shook his head to get the ringing out of his ears. Some of the others winced, the night _still_ not out of their systems. "Oh aye?" he finally said with a faint smile, "Well then, Ah say awa' we go!"

The musicians took their cue, and Rianblade began the first relatively slow measures as the three fillies emulated him, their determined expressions almost comical. Scootaloo hardly took her eyes off Rianblade. Applebloom also watched him closely, her tongue pushed out of her mouth with concentration. Sweetie Belle kept looking down at her legs to make sure they were behaving themselves – then scrambling to catch up to what her friends were doing as opposed to Rianblade.

When their inexperience finally tackled their enthusiasm, it was Sweetie Belle first, then Applebloom, before it finally ganged up with fatigue five minutes later to bring Scootaloo crashing to the ground. Cheers and good-natured ribbing accompanied the Cutie Mark Crusaders' progressive defeat.

"Get ye breath back, lassies, an' well done young pegasus," Rianblade said at last, "An' that goes for ye as well," he addressed his fellow Shetlanders, "take a wee break and be back in ten minutes."

This, however, meant that musical instruments were left in the vicinity of three foalish fillies who knew no bounds in trying to unearth their talents worth a cutie mark.

* * *

"Momma!"

"Hungy!"

Cup Cake sighed with resigned amusement and walked to a less busy spot with all the grace of a mare besieged by two months-old foals searching for the teat.

As Pound and Pumpkin finally latched on, tails flailing in the manner of all nursing foals, she sighed again, humming an old nursery tune as the pressure in her mammary glands eased. Passers-by, seeing mother and children, just smiled indulgently. A mare nursing at a wonderful fair; a charming sight for a happy day.

An agonised scream tore through the air, killing the pleasant ambience stone dead. Most ponies froze, ears erect, then another cry, this one with unpleasant undertones of punctured lung, flailed through the air.

Pound and Pumpkin Cake, appetites decidedly spoiled, both let go and started to run, squealing with fear; Cup had to chase after them. Other ponies also had to pursue frightened foals, while guardsmen and several Shetlanders all waded through the crowds towards the noise, ready to fight.

"Stay close ye foals!" Amhránaílore informed the school herd in a voice that brooked no disobedience.

It was quite painfully clear, no pun intended, that somepony was being hideously murdered. In between his or her cries of anguish you could hear the indistinct oaths of the attacker, often immediately followed by yet another wail, until finally the hapless victim's last gasps gurgled into what should have been silence, but was instead a lesser cacophony of frightened ponies.

Cherilee counted heads, and came up three short. "Has anypony seen," and she sighed in resignation, "Applebloom, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo?"

"Hoy!" Amhránaílore stopped a Shetlander who was ambling past them with an amused smirk on his face, "Wha's goin' on?"

"Go see for ye'sael'," the other chuckled, jerking his head behind him.

Amhránaílore went, and found a small circle of unimpressed guardsponies, glowering musicians, and smirking Shetlanders all regarding a tableau of three fillies and two bagpipes. The fillies had clearly taken on more than they could blow.

Sweetie Belle, her face almost clashing with her mane, managed to lift her head. "Cutie... Mark... Crus... ader... Pipers... nugghhh," she managed to gasp out before her head fell back onto one of the bagpipes.

The pipes farted in derision.


End file.
